This stealthy transition happens in subtle stages. We fiercely love our completely helpless little pile of humanity so much that we feed it, keep it clean, and even position that little body so it can sleep safely and peacefully. It awakens and cries out, and there we are, ready to feed and clean and position all over again. It needs so much loving and holding and protecting and fretting mixed in with a healthy dose of terror.

The kid makes it through that stage, onto the Terrible Twos. We soon realize the kid is set on self-destruct and our primary purpose is to keep him or her from succeeding. So we hyper-vigil this child, not only thwarting all efforts to unknowingly self harm, but often predicting what he or she is going to do before they do it. We are needed by them that much.

We make it past that stage with minimal bruising, on to next stages that seem to pass by too fast. One moment we have a cranky three-year-old on our hands. Then we blink and we have a cranky teen-year-old on our hands.

The strange part is that while the three-year-old needs us, so does the teen. The difference is the three-year-old will admit it, even demand it. The teen will deny it but secretly hope we know how desperately we are needed. Parenting teens is likely the trickiest parenting of all because what we tell them to their face is different from what’s going on in our heads. We know what they should do, and we need to figure out how to help them know it too without them realizing it came from us. If they see through that, our (correct) pathway is doomed. If they think they figured it out themselves, their road is smoothly paved.

We go through all of this because we’re doing what we signed up for when we found out we were expecting this kid. The deep, satisfying fulfillment that comes from being needed by someone we love eventually overtakes our lives. We settle into the knowledge that we are someone’s guide, protector, and first friend. We are gloriously needed.

And then we blink again and they’re gone. It’s what kids do when they grow up. It’s the plan. In fact, if they don’t leave, something’s gone a little wrong. We raise them up to leave us.

The reason their need for me dwindles is ironically simple. I don’t have what they need anymore. They’re now smarter than I am. They don’t need to know what I know about raising kids because they’re the ones I raised when I learned those things. My traditions are old, my technology will never catch up to theirs, and they’re likely afraid I’m going to try to give them another piece of furniture or some memento they don’t want. I am, in fact, headed down the backside of life while they are just now rising in theirs. They’ve become what I hoped for — capable, independent, bright people who now march to their own drums — away from me.

Some seasoned folks exist between bitterness and deep sorrow when they reach this point. Their identities were so tied up in their children that when they’re no longer needed, they don’t know who they are. Or what to do.

Occasionally my kids still need me. Mostly they need my time. Because of our places in life, I have more of it than they do. So I give it to them as needed, either spending it with them or shouldering something for them so they have more of it. Occasionally they also need my insight or experience. But they get that only when they ask for it. That lesson has been learned.

My present presence in their lives took time to accept. I should feel liberated, and sometimes I do. But there are still days of longing to be at the busy center of their worlds rather than standing at the edge, quietly waiting.

So to my children’s generation: If you have little kids underfoot, cherish your fleeting time with them. If you have aging parents watching from the sidelines, invite them in. You are the center link that joins the generations. Including your parents in your life not only gives them purpose — it also teaches your children how to handle you when your time comes.

Much sooner than you can possibly imagine.