"Can I wear this?"
"That? It's 27 years old."
"I know! It's retro. And totally now!"
"Er, yes. You can wear it. That's if it fits; I was kind of sma . . . oh. 'kay. It fits. Good then."
"Look at this, mom! It's my favorite color! And you never wear it, sooo . . . "
"True. Looks good on you. Yeah, you might as well have it."
"Awesome! Are you using that frying pan? I mean, I haven't seen you use it in, like, forever. Do you need it?"
"Hmmm. No. Guess not. You can have it."
"How about those blankets? That pillow? Those measuring cups? Those snow boots? That spoon? That clock? And do we have any extra sheets?"
Yep. My kid is moving out.
Again.
I already did this last year. I helped pack, schlep, unpack, run errands, find obscure items that no one really needs, search, hunt, and settle in. And I cried. Above all I cried. I ALREADY DID THIS LAST YEAR! WHY DO I HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN THIS YEAR?
Because it's killing me. Just like last time. Except more.
I was scared before daughter-child came home this summer. Worried that now that she'd been gone a year and was all adult and independent, her months spent living here and working would be tough–a constant jockying for position: me trying to ratchet her back into her old one, her trying to pole vault out of it.
But that never happened.
Nope. We had a wonderful summer. My husband and I backed off, gave her space, made sure we didn't treat her like she'd just been away on a trip and everything was like before. She in turn respected house rules, helped out, and hung with her siblings like their best friend.
Because she is.
It was cool. Fun. Relaxing. She brought a settled and optimistic vibe into our home, and everyone loved it. But now she's going back, and taking all the stuff that will remind us of her with her (along with a little bit of us.)
The other kids are getting ready to go too. Back to school, anyway. All. Day. Long. I will be twice as much lonely mother hen as I was last year.
Who'd a thought? I spent years thinking I'd never adjust to being a mother, and suddenly . . . I find I have.
*weep*
Well, we'll get daughter-child back for holidays and the occasional weekend. Maybe I'll kidnap her laundry once in a while so she'll have to come get it. As for the rest of the brood? We're going to need to have a lot of rollicking weekends to make up for how quickly they are all bee-lining for the door.
I'm thinking of covering the walls with flypaper.
What do you think?
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