We're on the downhill side of parenting.  Yesterday, my husband pointed out that we have more years behind us than in front of us when it comes to having our firstborn at home.  At age 10, there are 8 years left until he (fingers crossed) launches into the next stage of life - college, a fulfilling job, or some other as-yet-unforeseen step. Eight Christmases, eight birthdays, eight summers. And then suddenly, adulthood.  Social media regularly reminds me how small he once was, in a time I only hazily remember. Plenty of moms will tell you with sorrow in their throats how they miss those baby and toddler and preschooler ages.  I have mixed feelings. One side of my heart aches at how quickly my son is growing up, every day becoming more his own person and less mine.  But the other half of my heart knows I wouldn't relive those years even on a dare. They were a monumental struggle for me, a mountain I wasn't sure I would survive climbing. Many times I was lost in ...