On my 18th birthday, I proudly walked into my high school’s administration office, asked for a form, then filled it out and signed it. The office kept a white copy and handed me back a yellow carbon copy, which I stuck in my wallet and carried with me at all times. Then, as now, I was a nerd about reading through laws, rules, and administrative regulations, and I knew that this flimsy, thin, yellow piece of paper proved that I had completed the school district’s administrative requirements of asserting my status as a legal adult.
Near limitless power was mine. With the simplest of signatures, I could grant myself permission to go on a field trip. With the briefest of conversations (and consent of a licensed medical professional), I could sign myself out from the nurse’s office. With a humble piece of paper and a pen, I could assert that I’d been to the dentist. All I had to do was show the school my magic yellow paper. I felt like such a grown-up.
A few weeks later, I was prepared. As my teacher started handing out blank permission slips allowing us to spend the Thursday afternoons of our English class in a nearby park, I knew what I had to do. Before the last student had even received their copy, my signature graced the paper. Class ended, and I proudly handed her my completed form – yellow paper at the ready – but she simply took it and said, “Thanks.” What was new and exciting to me was the everyday slog of adulthood to her.
By the time this issue of Richmond Family Magazine hits the stands, I will be the parent of a human being who has reached the age of majority. My son, a high school senior, will be doing all sorts of things for the first time that are boring, routine, or even cumbersome to me. He’ll be registering to vote. He’ll be opening a bank account in his own name. Heck, he could even be summoned for jury duty. Things that would just be one more thing to add to my to-do list, will be novel to him, and it’ll be my job to remember that newness and not greet every form with a sigh.
It does seem that the bureaucracy of “becoming an adult” in 2025 is a greater task than it was when I came of legal age. I don’t remember a ton of documents I had to sign or bureaucratic steps I had to take after my 18th birthday. There was my magic yellow paper, I had to fill out a selective service form, and I’d already registered to vote when I was 17 (thanks to an October birthday). There must have been a few other things my parents filled out and told me to read over and sign, but I don’t remember. I was a teenager at the time, and teenagers are the worst.
But in 2025, every single online account I’ve managed for my son needs a different set of steps to transition them to an “adult” account, with different ramifications. My access to his doctor’s patient portal account turns off on his birthday; he’ll need to authorize us again if he wants us to have access. His Apple account? Parts of it will transition automatically (like the ability to remotely manage his screen time), but not others (like restricting App Store purchases), depending on our “Family” settings. An Amazon Prime account can only have two adults per household, so his previous “teen” account which had access to Prime features will become an “adult” account that does not. Now, multiply these three examples by every single account my kid has ever had on any internet service and combine it with next to no documentation.
Even though it’s a lot, I feel less worried as I remind myself that it doesn’t have to happen all at once. The odd thing about an 18th birthday is that it’s such a line in the sand, an arbitrary day. One day, my son is a legal minor. The next day, he’s a legal adult. I get why it makes sense for the law to be structured this way. The line has to be drawn somewhere, but it strongly contrasts with much of my experiences as a parent. So much of my personal parenting experience thus far has consisted of gradual change. Sure, I remember milestones like his first steps or his first word, but I also remember him practicing standing up while hanging onto things and all the little noises he made figuring out how to make sounds – my son’s been working toward adulthood his entire life. Parenting him has been a constant tension between protecting him and fostering his independence. It has also mostly been the blurriness and fuzziness of the everyday, with the greater themes only emerging in those moments where you pause and reflect on just how much they’ve grown.
I feel privileged that I’ve gotten to support my kid, as radically imperfect a parent as I’ve been. I’m also grateful that my son seems to want to continue letting me help him, hears me out, and generally wants me in his life. One of the best things about my son is that he’s always been his own person (even though his mom and I have always had the final say). Now that he’s legally an adult, the final word is now his. He gets to be in control of what help and support he wants to accept, he gets to decide when to take more of the guardrails off, and I feel so much love that I still get to participate in his life.
