A wrapped up his freshman year of college, so it’s time for a recap of what we’ve learned.

My biggest takeaway? If your child picks a school whose color is red, just accept the fact that all their underwear and socks are going to turn pink. Accept it and make your peace with it.

Be willing to bail them out the first time, because they are going to need at least one white undershirt to wear under their white dress shirt, when they have important things to attend, but after that, well, live and learn, child!

Beyond the laundry lessons, though, it’s been a year of change for all of us. I have noticed that A and I are now navigating this peculiar relationship of “more adult, less parent.”

I’ve battled my helicopter tendencies since he was born, and I was determined to let him sink or swim on his own when he went to school. At the same time, this one is for all the marbles, and sinking at this point really isn’t an option.

I tried to play the part of “port in the storm,” letting him know I was always there for him, but let him reach out when he needed to.

Admittedly, there were long days of frustration when I didn’t hear from him, or text messages were answered with a “busy, can’t talk right now.” I continually had to remind myself that this is how things were supposed to be, and this was what “success” looked like.

Although A had taken a rigorous high school curriculum, I was always aware of what he had going on. He almost always asked me to proofread his papers. His projects were usually spread out all over the kitchen table for weeks at a time. I had ringside seat to every activity he pursued.

It was weird to find out weeks later that he’d joined one club or another, weirder still to know that he was at a swim meet three states over, and I wasn’t there to cheer him on. But he managed all these things and told me what he thought I needed to know. Occasionally, I even got a picture or a text update!

One of the hardest things for me to let go of was being his sounding board. This happened partially just because of the logistics.

Let’s just say that college freshman schedules just don’t match up with single mom of three schedules in a way that is convenient for all parties. But it also happened because he’s just on another level now.

For the most part, I can still hold my own with a high school education, but as he has already started to dive into highly specific course work, many times, I honestly had no idea what he was even talking about.

We tried to make a go of it, me proofreading his first few efforts, but without the exposure to the lectures and an in-depth reading of his course selections, I couldn’t say one way or the other whether his arguments were valid or lacking.

I wasn’t even needed for spelling or grammar checking any more, as the AI programs that they are allowed to use for that purpose are, sadly, better at it than I am. He is still kind enough to show me his work, usually after the fact, like when it shows up in an on-campus publication.

Truthfully, he does not need me anymore when it comes to putting pen to paper. Once again, the pride comes with just a pinch of sadness.

This was always the way it was supposed to happen. While it stings a little bit not to be needed, I just try to remind myself that everything we did up to this point was intentional to get us here.

He doesn’t realize it, but I can see this newfound confidence and independence coming through in more ways than just his writing.

It’s still nice to be needed, though.

From helping pack up his dorm room, to trying to turn his socks back to white, there are still a few things that mother knows best.

Liz Pinkey’s column appears on Saturdays in the Times News