Relief and nostalgia descend as clock clicks down to freeing 21

As the clock above my desk clicks toward 1:20 p.m. tomorrow, I'll be watching. And wondering if the huge weight of responsibility that descended in a Sherman Hospital delivery room at that exact moment 21 years ago will just as suddenly fly away.

Doubtful, I know. Everyone tells me a parent doesn't quit worrying about a child until they reach the grave and simply can't. But there's little doubt a child reaching 21 is a milestone, for them and for their parents.

It is the moment they legally reach adulthood. Like many others before him, I suspect my son will celebrate by doing something more stupid than adult. But I don't know and I don't really want to know. As of 1:20 tomorrow, I don't have to feel guilty about not wanting to know, either.

Oddly enough, my child turning 21 leaves me feeling more old than free. And more nostalgic than celebratory, although any parent will tell you there's a certain sense of satisfaction and a certain appreciation of dumb luck when a child reaches that age in relatively good shape.

Sure, there are regrets. Words you wish you hadn't said. And words you wish you had said, but didn't. Still, parenting is a grand experiment, and in every experiment there are moments of both great failure and great wonder.

My wallet and walls are full of such moments. The first day of kindergarten. A young skier, flush with red cheeks and the joys of exuberance. A baseball player, proud in his uniform. An eighth-grade grad with his friends. A young hiker standing amid the wildflowers of Mt. Rainier. A kid and his dog, nose to nose. A young man and his girlfriend, entwined on a Florida dock.

Sad moments run through one's mind, too. The devastation in a little boy's eyes at the exact moment he realized the crab he had helped catch in the morning had turned into that night's dinner. At 14, the tears he put in everybody's eyes with an eloquent eulogy to a troubled uncle with whom he shared a name.

And memories of sheer terror. His nosedive into the hot tub before he was out of diapers, the moment at which I learned a whole new lifesaving use for the suspender straps of OskKosh B'Gosh overalls. Lifted out of the water by those straps, he came up laughing. Me? I needed CPR. Or the moment he nearly sprinted off the edge of the Grand Canyon, thinking his dad was playing a "catch me" game. We both needed CPR after that one, but our son was oblivious.

So, yes, it will be nice not to have to watch so many of those moments and thank serendipity after the fact, having imagined all too well what might have been. And yes, it's nice to officially hand off to him the responsibility for judging adventure against recklessness, fun against stupidity, instant gratification against the future.

I worry about the sad state of the world we have handed him -- indebted, non-competitive, self-absorbed and without soul. But then I recall my parents worrying about the world they handed me. We were at war, American cities were in flames and rebellion filled the streets. Government was in disdain and rivers were so polluted they could be set afire with a match. I'm guessing he'll find a way to survive.

But I simply could not resist. I sent him a 21st birthday card that contained pictures of a number of birthday cakes, each topped with a Mom-ism of the type every kid has heard a million times. But that wasn't good enough for me. I drew one more cake and topped it with, "Please be careful!"

My final motherly admonition? Probably not. But the calendar and the ticking clock tell me it should be.