Come back birdie...

I used to sing this nursery rhyme to my kids when they were little, using my fingers as the little birds and acting out the hand gestures as they flew away and then flew back.

Two little bluebirds sitting on a hill.

One named Jack and one named Jill.

Fly away Jack, fly away Jill.

Come back Jack, come back Jill. 

At the time, it was just a simple nursery rhyme—one that teaches children to sing, rhyme, count, and bond with their parents. Now, however, it sits with me a little more deeply as my own little birdies begin to fly the nest.

I have been a full-time parent since they were born. I stayed home and raised them until they started school, working evenings and weekends to help support the family. When my marriage ended, I had one child full-time from the start. Eventually, a second became full-time as well, and the third has always operated on his own schedule and prefers it that way.

In a few weeks, all three of my children will officially be adults.

It's a strange thing, being the mom of grown children. It's not as though their adulthood sneaks up on you—you know it's coming from the moment they arrive. But somehow, when it actually happens, it still hits you like a ton of Lego bricks.

It's as if I've been watching my little birds perched on a hill for 18, 21, and 23 years, teaching them how to fly on their own. Teaching them life skills (some of which are still very much a work in progress). Teaching them how to navigate the world, solve problems, and eventually support themselves without needing me every day.

Notice I said needing me.

I certainly hope they still want me around. At least occasionally. Maybe for food, clothing repairs and the occasional hug.

The strange thing is that they're slowly flying the nest already.

It started with my eldest buying his own car. He's currently away on a trip with friends, and my house is quiet—almost creepily so. My middle son spends more and more time with his friends. Sometimes they're here watching sports or playing video games, but increasingly they're out in the world, doing, living, and enjoying life. I love that for him and his friends, many of whom he's known since kindergarten.

My youngest is leaving the nest in September to go away to school.  Something she has wanted to do since she was about 8.  She is fiercely independent, and always said she would leave home before her brothers….

That one is hitting me hard.

I've always hoped these birds would fly away someday. Some days more than others. Three young adults in a small townhouse can feel a little crowded, especially when they've collectively decided that dishes are apparently decorative and that the bathroom cleans itself.

But now that they're starting to spread their wings, I feel a small tug in my heart that wants them to come back.

Come back and be little for just a little while longer.

Come back and snuggle on the sofa with me one more time.

Come back and crawl under the covers on a Sunday morning just once more.

It's a strange thing to feel so proud of them for standing on their own two feet while still wondering what they will become.

And, if I'm being honest, wondering what will become of me.

I am their mom. Mama. Mother and their Yogajenni (one of them calls me that).

I know I am many other things too, but for more than 23 years, this has been my most important role. As they fly exactly as I taught them to, I find myself wondering what this next chapter looks like—for them, and for me.

Maybe that's the part nobody tells you about parenting.

Teaching them to fly is only half the job.

The other half is learning how to stand on the hill and watch.

I’m not crying – you’re crying….