“I showed Van how to put the wax in his hair,” my husband said Monday morning as the kids were getting ready for school. We’ve been arguing lately about how much I do for our three children. Children who—by his and other people’s standards—aren’t technically kids anymore. Ryker is 12. Willa is 11 going on 45. And then there is our third baby, eight-year-old Van. He recently got a new haircut and has been asking me to help him “spike it up.”

I get it. Kids should learn how to do things themselves. That is what we are supposed to teach them as parents. To find a snack when they’re hungry. To match their own socks. To load the dishwasher. To sing the happy birthday song in their head, so they know how long to brush their teeth. We are after all preparing our tiny humans to one day live without us. But that is exactly what’s been weighing heavy on my heart recently. In a way that makes my throat a little lumpy as I type this. Pretty soon my kids aren’t going to need me for all the little things.

Like many changes in life, there won’t be a sign letting me know what’s about to happen. There’s no “Last Time To Tuck Your Kid In 3 Nights Ahead” or “Family Halloween Costumes Coming To An End Soon” or “You Are About To Become Unnecessary, Starting Tomorrow.” Nope. One day you are the constant your kids turn to for comfort and company—and then suddenly you aren’t.

My oldest son and I used to have a bedtime ritual. Each night he’d choose two random characters like Batman and Sponge Bob, then listen and laugh as I made up a ridiculous story on the spot. It’d typically include some shocking plot twist where one of them would fall off a cliff or turn into a zombie. But that story was our own little insulated world. For those 10 minutes it was just the two of us, controlling the narrative after an unpredictable day.

Now he wears deodorant and calls me “bruh.” I fight to stay awake later than he does.

Willa, our daughter stuck between two boys, has always been the stand-in parent when my husband is traveling. Helping with dinner, explaining her little brother’s math homework, reading Knuffle Bunny or Captain Underpants with just the right inflection at bedtime. She’s also pretty incredible at reading people, especially her mother. And she always knows when to jump in to diffuse a situation.

I used to comb her wavy, blonde hair into a high pony before school. We’d finish it with the biggest, brightest cheer bow. She had about 15 different ones we collected from competitions. Sequence, girl-power quotes or one of her favorites with tiny white paw prints.

These are the same bows she added to the Goodwill pile a few months ago, gently telling me, “Mom, you’re gonna have to let go of my bow days.” Now, she has a skin regimen and Facetimes her friends to coordinate matching outfits for school.

Which brings me back to Van. The one who still asks me for the little things. Every morning he gets himself up, dressed, microwaves his Nutella Uncrustable, feeds the dogs and is ready for school before the other two surface at the kitchen island. The one thing he still asks for my help with is his hair. He stands in the mudroom with his tiny camo backpack shouting, “Wax me!” It’s such a simple, small ask that takes up a big space in my heart. Because next year, I probably won’t be a part of his morning routine.

As a typical third kid he knows how to play me for attention, and I promise I am aware. I am not naïve. I am quite the opposite. As the mother of three children, I am painfully aware that they are more than capable of doing things on their own. They don’t need me to go through the motions of their day. I am no longer the driving force in their lives. I am a passenger.

But taking a backseat is incredibly difficult. I have to watch and try not to react. I read their body language when I pick them up from school, trying not to push too hard for more information until they’re ready to talk. I give them space to make mistakes knowing that I will be the one to help them fix it later. They still need me. Not for their hair or their bedtime stories, but for a far bigger journey ahead.

Parents always say, “it goes so fast.” The days, the years—the Facebook memories that physically hurt your ribs when they pop up on your feed. I don’t have to go into detail about the acceleration at which our kids are growing up. Trying to filter out their exposure to topics I didn’t even know existed till at least high school is no longer in my control. They are moving forward, and I am lucky if they turn to see me standing in their rearview mirror.

So, I’d like to offer this addendum to the statement above: “Go at your own pace.” When those moments of slowness present themselves, grab the wheel and slam on those brakes. Can my kids go to bed on their own? Absolutely. Do they need to know I am there to go through the motions? I’d argue, yes.

Because all those simple asks that might have seemed insignificant over the years were actually a big deal to my kids. Knowing I’d stop what I was doing to tuck them in like a burrito or give them “dinosaur hair” was daily confirmation that what is important to them will always be a priority to me. It reminds them that I am still here when they need me. I am the water bottle filler, the chauffer, the person who knows when they are hurting and need to catch their breath.

At the end of the day it’s the little things that reassure my children—I will always be along for the ride.