The Final Trimester
Per science (or TikTok), the reason we have multiple children is because the brain lets us forget the discomfort of pregnancy and the pain of childbirth. That’s why gestation gets celebrated—so you’ll remember the glow, not the tearing. Because everything after that is parenthood, and no one throws you a shower for that.
It’s a difficult period. You feel alone. You wonder if you’ve done enough. Is it even a good time to push someone out into the world? No one talks about the unthinkable: your child’s senior year of high school.
I have two sons. One is twenty-nine and thriving in New York City, where only twenty-somethings and rats seem to survive. He has an apartment I’ve never seen, a girlfriend I’ve never met, and a law-firm job whose name I always forget. When he calls, I no longer brace for a loan request or an automated prison voice. That’s what thriving means now—living without parental supervision.
My other son is seventeen and rapidly making me look like I’m not. The idea of college is abstract to boys; the adult world to them is a 1940s expressionist painting—blurry, weary, all tilted heads. He’s six-three or six-five depending on his hair, thin as a coffee stir stick and roughly the same color—with cream.
I’ve always been his style guide, though this year he’s “branched out.” Every outfit still comes from my purchases. Once a week I get: “Mom, how do you pronounce this designer? Where’d you get it? How much was it?” Then a shrug and a view of his back as he leans into the fridge. I assume, as it will be for life, it’s about a girl.
My eldest was a dream until junior year, when he became a tyrannical dinosaur demanding autonomy at the risk of extinction from the family. With my youngest, we front-loaded the problems: no crawling, no lost teeth, dyslexia, ADHD, depression, and no interest in sports—a sin in Georgia. We remediated, extracted, medicated. Eventually he became a star student who liked us again.
Then came the final trimester—the phase where you still have a child, still feel responsible, but only see him by appointment or through a screen.
The disappearances began once he got his license. I’d wake, go to the gym, and he’d be gone—leaving behind a chocolate-milk-encrusted glass and an empty protein-bar wrapper as proof of life. Evenings were a rotation of meals left on the counter, plates returned empty, shake bottles lined up like toy soldiers.
As my husband and I discuss college, it’s with awe. We used to joke he’d live with us forever—we even built a studio in the backyard. Now he’s on the principal’s list, taking AP classes, forging ahead. His father read encyclopedias for fun; my son watches history documentaries on YouTube and debates foreign policy in the car. I still turn it down.
What I remember most about pregnancy was the waiting—for doctors, for heartburn to fade, for results. And seventeen years later, I’m still waiting: SATs, ACTs, acceptances, scholarships—each one another ultrasound of his potential.
He’s willfully aloof. Last Saturday his father and I crept around him like anxious ghosts. SAT results had been out for two days. We waited for a sign, a word, any morsel. Nothing.
Finally my husband asked, “It’s time to sign up for the August SAT. Do you think you’ll take it again?”
“I don’t know,” our son said. “I’ll wait until I get my score. Anybody hungry?”
His father grabbed my thigh to keep me from levitating.
“They came out two days ago,” he said gently, as I began morphing into a banshee.
“Yeah?” my son replied. “I think I want poutine.”
Thirty seconds, five gray hairs, and two sweaty armpits later, he announced his score.
“Is that good?” he asked.
The score was fine. It was the not knowing that was painful. Would he end up at community college? Harvard? Should we have gone to the armed-forces career fair?
When he was ten and asked if Jesus was a zombie because he came back from the dead, we decided any course he chose, we’d support. But his recent streak had given us lofty dreams: lunches at The One Hotel on his day off from the University of Miami, maybe a condo in Santa Monica for USC visits. His score made those fantasies possible.
My husband and I exchanged grins before our shared gene matter said, “I think I’ll get two poutines this time—last time they forgot mine.”
New parents love to talk about strollers and sleep sacks. But there’s no book called What to Expect When You’re Expecting an Eighteen-Year-Old. No budgeting app for senior-year expenses. No “End of Childhood” ornament.
When senior year began, the school sent The Tassel, a quarterly newsletter, and hosted a coffee klatch with twenty PowerPoint slides, burnt coffee, and equally burnt cookies. No one gave me a list for prom, tutoring, essay consultants, or the $150 senior banquet with $10 worth of Chipotle catering.
A friend offered her daughter’s graduation gown—until we learned the school changed designs. Parents who’ve made it through never mention that all these costs hit in one nine-month period—the same nine months you’re also expected to conjure tuition for USC or Miami.
People say, “Enjoy it. It goes by so fast.” So does the money.
During this final trimester, I have one foot in empty-nest euphoria and one pretending to care as I block the school’s attendance calls. I’m tuned out but hyper-attuned to the lasts: the final doctor’s appointment, the last form I’ll sign, the day his warranty expires.
I try to instill last-minute wisdom so people don’t immediately question his upbringing: “Sweetheart, yes, it’s a broom, but it’s not called brooming.”
The final trimester comes without advice, hand-me-downs, or balloons tied to the mailbox. No pre-adult shower for the mom.
Sure, there are parties: pre-prom, parents’ prom, prom prom, post-prom, homecoming, graduation kickoff, graduation, post-graduation, goodbye dinner, dorm move-in brunch.
No pomp, no wisdom—just me, responsible for all of it.
And still, the real world hums beyond the senior bubble: jobs, deadlines, birthdays. Life doesn’t pause because my kid hasn’t dropped out yet.
I feel pressure to make the last Christmas of his childhood memorable. To follow through when he says he wants to skydive with me because I promised a decade ago. To cook every night because, once he’s gone, I’ll throw a bonfire for my pots and pans.
But I also start planning: European escapades, creative-writing fellowships in Prague, floral symposiums in Holland, a world tour of luxury outlet malls. I fantasize about having a full day again—not one splintered into “before,” “during,” and “after school.”
I will perfect a smoky eye with a wing tip, master my angles, get my handstand, and fall in love (hopefully with my husband).
All I have to do is clear my house of 161 pounds of eighteen-year-old.
About the Author
Zora Foote is a writer and designer whose essays explore motherhood, identity, and modern womanhood. She is a graduate of Emory University’s Creative Writing Program and author of High Gloss, Low Patience on Substack.
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