I felt the need to reconnect with my old friend, start a conversation and understand more of what it's like to mother an 18-year-old black son compared to mothering an 18-year-old white one.

I am the mother of sons. They are brothers. They are sweet. They are spacy. They are kind. They are kinda bratty. They sass. They scream. They sing. They rub my feet when I am sick.

Four blonde little boys live in my house. All four look like their daddy, walk like their daddy, and throw a baseball like their daddy.

It happens more than you’re willing to admit. That moment when your child speaks, and you want to shove the words right back into his innocent little face.

It’s not like they call to tell me how adorable and well-behaved my children are.

I have two sons and a husband, and sometimes the frenetic activity of our house feels like panic.

Then, the following school day, he didn't want to go to school. “Because of the mean boy.”

For now, I'll take the discomfort in exchange for the chance to be his sole source of comfort.

Those words hit me like a ton of bricks. Damn, he is really growing up.

My job as a mother is simple: I’m raising my son to best prepare him to leave me.