There is nothing worse, as a mother, than when your grown child presents you with a problem that your experience could easily resolve, only to refuse any semblance of advice or parental wisdom. The amount of time you get to prepare your children for life is far briefer than you ever expect. One minute they’re running around in diapers and seeking your guidance in all things, and the next, they’re married with three children, living halfway across the country.

As the mother of four, I’m constantly amazed at how different their approach to life is. My youngest son recently graduated from Lenoir Community College with an Associate's degree in Mechanical Engineering—the first of my children to earn a degree. He still lives at home, but I know it’s only a matter of time before he starts his own adventures. Yet, he seems to think employers are lining up, waiting to hire him. His lackadaisical perspective on his future drives his neurotic mother crazy. He’ll line up to volunteer and help someone else, but he won’t prioritize his own needs.

Then there’s my middle son. This boy has been Hell on Wheels since birth. Every pearl-clutching moment I’ve had as a parent started and ended with him saying, “Guess what I just did.” He was the boy-equivalent of “hold my beer.” I should have known he’d be an interesting human when, at 18 months old, he took the hydraulic off the screen door with a screwdriver and insatiable curiosity. For the next seventeen years, he dismantled most of my appliances and electronics. Now, he only calls when someone—usually me—has guilted him into realizing he hasn’t talked to his mother in a few weeks, or if he needs money, which prompts regular phone calls or at least a handful of text messages. He put his life on hold to help his older sister, and while I’m beyond grateful for the sacrifices he continues to make, I wish he’d put himself first once in a while.

My middle daughter is the most perplexing. This young woman can stand toe-to-toe with the worst of humanity and force them to submit to her will, yet she continuously allows herself to be taken advantage of—sometimes even volunteering for it. As a young mother of three, it infuriates me that she cannot put herself first, or at least somewhere in the lineup. Though I must admit, I know where that behavior comes from—pot, meet kettle. She’s an amazing mother whose children bring her boundless joy and endless worry. If only she loved herself as much as she loves them. I constantly feel the need to protect her more than my sons because her heart is on display all the time for others in need.

Finally, there’s my eldest. We grew up together. Every adventure I had as a young adult, she was along for the ride as my mini ride-or-die. If a mistake was to be made, I made it with her in tow. As she got older and started to pull away, I clung so tightly I probably left proverbial bruises. In true offspring fashion, she bolted as soon as she could and moved to California. Life brought her back home, giving me hope that I’ll still be needed, even if only in short spurts. She’s more like me than she’d ever admit, with the primary difference being how we handle conflict. I’m a “let’s talk it out” person, while she is a “burn it all down and let God sort it out” person.

It’s interesting how much of myself I see in my children. Some of the best parts of their personality stemmed from the worst parts of mine. Their perception of me has shaped a lot of what they do. All four of my children are confrontational because their mother was not. They are all incredibly empathetic, often to their own detriment—another gift from dear old mom. I can’t take all the credit for who they’ve become, but as their sole parent, I’m claiming most of it. I’m so proud of who they are as people, as siblings, as my sons and daughters. Most of all, I’m proud of the confidence with which they live their lives. It’s on their terms, or not at all.

Perhaps, instead of wanting to teach them, I should be learning from them.