My brain still refuses to accept this information, that I am the mother of two adults. Two adult daughters! I say it out loud quite often, partly to practise and partly because I’m hoping one day it’ll sink in and stop sounding so strange. It hasn’t yet.
Ellie, my youngest, turned 18 back in August, which means I officially crossed that line into all my children are grown-ups now. I thought by now I’d be used to it, I assumed the shock would wear off, I’d adjust, move on, maybe even feel a bit smug about it but no. I still find myself wandering round the house then suddenly stopping to mutter I have two adult daughters, like it’s a fun fact I’ve just learnt and can’t quite process. They are both proper adults. They can vote. They can sign contracts. They can book appointments, open bank accounts and walk into a pub without anyone batting an eyelid but they still want me to make phone calls for them, sit next to them while they fill in forms, and double check emails before they press send. The confidence disappears the second paperwork appears.
I caught myself telling someone that my girls aren't kids any more, they're all grown up and then immediately felt like I was lying because, sure, they’re legally adults but I think they will always be my babies. Slightly taller, louder babies with opinions and strong feelings about everything but still mine.
In theory, having two adult daughters should mean my workload has dropped massively. They should be cooking their own meals, keeping on top of laundry, changing their beds, cleaning up after themselves and maybe even doing the odd bit of housework without being asked. In real life, it’s more like having two very tall teenagers who can debate politics one minute and then shout Mam! the next because they’re not sure if a recipe needs salt or not. There is less teenage drama, which I appreciate more than I can explain but there are still plates left on the sides instead of in the sink. There are still cups abandoned around the house and my chocolate still mysteriously disappears.
They’re independent in lots of ways now. They manage their own money, organise their own schedules, deal with work, college and life stuff. I love seeing that. I love watching them handle things without panicking or needing me to step in straight away. It makes me proud but independence doesn’t mean they suddenly stop needing their mam. It just means the reasons change. Instead of tying shoelaces and packing school bags, I’m now helping with bigger decisions, listening to worries about work, relationships and what on earth they’re meant to be doing with their lives. Sometimes I’m asked for advice, sometimes I’m just asked to listen and sometimes I’m asked to fix something that Google could absolutely handle but apparently Mam is still the preferred option.
They’re learning how to stand on their own two feet and I’m learning how to step back without fully stepping away. That’s the tricky bit, finding that balance between giving them space and still being the safety net they’ve always had. I want them to be confident and capable and excited about their adult lives but because they’re still living at home, I’m very much part of the day-to-day stuff too. I remind them to eat properly. I ask what time they’ll be home. I check they’ve got everything they need before they leave the house and I offer guidance when they’re making decisions. They’ve come such a long way and I’m in awe of the young women they’re becoming.
At the same time, little moments catch me off guard. A laugh that sounds exactly like it did when they were small, a song that reminds me of when they were little or a random memory of bedtime stories or school runs or tiny hands in mine. It’s bittersweet. I wouldn’t rewind time, but I do sometimes miss the simplicity of those days when their biggest worry was whether their teddy had slept well.
Having two adult daughters living at home feels like a strange but lovely in-between stage. They’re grown enough to make their own choices but close enough that we still share meals, stories, TV shows and those little everyday moments that matter more than you realise. We chat in the kitchen, laugh over silly things, and occasionally fall out over the same old stuff. Some things never change. It’s not always easy. The mess, the noise, the constant Mam can you just moments can test my patience, especially when I trip over shoes that definitely didn’t belong in the middle of the dining room but I know how quickly this stage will pass. One day the house will be quieter, too quiet and I’ll miss the sound of them coming in, the random conversations and the chaos of everyone being under one roof.
Being part of my girls adult lives is a privilege. I get to see them figuring things out, making mistakes, learning, growing. I get to cheer them on, support them and be there for them. I still can’t quite get my head around being the mother of two adults. It feels strange and wonderful and slightly unbelievable all at once but I do know this: no matter how old they get, no matter what they do or where life takes them, they’ll always be my girls and I wouldn’t change that for anything!
