A Decade of Diapers and a Quiet Shift By a Father with Fewer Dishes in the Sink and One Foot in a New Chapter

The boy walked across the stage and shook his favorite teacher's hand, his tassel turned, diploma firmly in hand. And poof, that was that: my last child, the caboose of the whole operation, had officially graduated from high school. The youngest of five, spaced neatly every other year like a chorus line of destiny, each one arriving just as we were getting our bearings with the last. My wife and I spent a full decade in the land of diapers and midnight feedings. We were up to our elbows in bottles and burp cloths, wiping noses and behinds, juggling schedules, refereeing squabbles, and mostly, unsuccessfully, finishing a cup of coffee while it was still warm.

Now here we are, years later, with five high school diplomas and one remaining son who, for the time being, still lives at home, tall and shaggy-haired, eating cereal out of mixing bowls and asking why we don’t keep better snacks in the house. He’s technically grown, technically a graduate, but still leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor like it’s his calling.

The house is quieter than it used to be, but not silent. It’s a different kind of noise now, less chaotic, more... transitional. You can almost hear the wheels turning in his mind as he decides what comes next. And in the stillness between his comings and goings, I find myself asking the same thing.

Because when the last child crosses the stage, a parent begins their own quiet graduation. Not a ceremony, mind you, no caps or gowns or awkward slideshow of memories, but something internal. A gentle shift of weight, from raising to releasing, from shepherding to simply sitting at the edge of the field and watching who they’ll become. You’re still needed, just not in the same ways.

I do keep expecting to feel finished, but I don’t. There are still grocery runs and gas station talks, as well as random requests for help. He’s still here, his sneakers by the door, his laundry mysteriously multiplying. But there’s a drifting now, like a boat that’s been untied but hasn’t quite left the dock. You can sense it. He’ll go eventually. They all do.

And when that time comes, I imagine it will be both a heartache and a hallelujah. But for now, I’ll take the sound of him rummaging through the fridge at midnight, the laughs behind his bedroom door, the occasional unsolicited conversation when he forgets he’s supposed to be aloof.

I don’t know exactly what’s next for me. A new season of life has come upon me quite suddenly, like the first cold snap in October, you knew it was coming, but somehow it still takes you by surprise, and you find yourself standing in the yard in a short-sleeved shirt, wondering where the summer went.

The pace of life may have changed, but the purpose hasn’t disappeared; it’s just taking on a new shape. Maybe I’ll rediscover something I once set aside. Maybe I’ll finally finish a thought without interruption. Maybe I’ll just sit a little longer with my wife at the kitchen table, drinking hot coffee and appreciating the journey we've been on, and dream about where our further adventures will take us, apart from being parents.

But for now, he’s still here. And so are we. And that’s certainly enough to keep this big heart of mine full for now.