Eighteen
My oldest daughter, Anna, turned 18 today.
Some notes:
Everything they say is true. All of it. One of the most disconcerting things about being a parent is the way you come to better understand your own parents and your own childhood. I was in high school for what seemed like eternity; the realization that it flew by for my parents puts a new lens on so many of my family memories.
I've known this for a while, but it is now hitting home more than ever: 18 year-olds just aren't adults in most senses of the word. The politics of adulthood have always fascinated me, and there are plenty of reasons to give 18 year-olds some/most legal rights and responsibilities. But it's quite obviously messy and trying to draw bright lines no longer makes sense to me, if it ever did.
Here in Virginia, 18 is the pure age of majority, meaning my wife and I are no longer even legally required to take care of Anna. (Many states, including New York where we grew up, require parents to care for children until they are 21.) You occasionally hear horror stories here in Virginia where kids who are still in high school essentially become homeless because their parents literally kick them out of the house at 18. Terrifying.
There's a surprising amount of paperwork and logistical arrangements associated with a child turning 18. Everything form Apple and Venmo turning off the child accounts, to Fidelity freezing Anna's UGMA account until we legally turn it over to her.
I cannot even imagine the Riot Act I'd be reading Anna if we were living in a different time and/or place and she was old enough to buy alcohol today.
There's a surprising slow good-bye that occurs with older teenagers, and the 18th birthday isn't really part of it. It really starts in earnest when they can drive; I didn't realize how much of their lives I learned about when I was their taxi driver. And obviously when Anna leaves for college that will be shocking. But today is, materially, just another day.
That said, it's hitting me much harder than 17 or 13 or 5.