Yesterday afternoon found me submerged in a bath with a glass of champagne; an unfinished bottle resting on the floor near the tub. And I had myself a nice, long, sobby, chest heaving, snotty, sniffling cry.
We’d enjoyed a nice Easter with my parents, my sister and her children. Precious Youngest, home for the past week for her spring break, packed up her car and drove back to college. And I found myself overwhelmed with a single thought: Our house is not “home” for our daughters any more. Not really. They call it “home”, but they are visitors when they come. Think about that for a minute.
I don’t think it is any secret that I adore my children. They are my life’s work. Thinking about who they are and what they’re doing with their lives makes me misty. They are doing all of the things I trained them to do, taught them to do, encouraged them to do. What in the name of all that is holy was I thinking? If you raise responsible adults they LEAVE!
I cried harder and longer yesterday than when I dropped either of them off at college the first time. I can only assume delayed grief to be the culprit. That it has taken me this long to come to terms with reality.
Reality? Bites. Big time.