My eight year old went on a Road Scholars' trip with her grandma. For a week. Away from my house. As they drove away the strings of my heart were stretched in an entirely new way. Oh, the ache, the one-sided ache.
You know how it is, right? Your heart aches so much that it bleeds down into your stomach, and all the while your beloved darling dances! and skips! and everything is PINK HAPPY UNICORNS AND I'M HAVING SO MUCH FUN!!!!!!
I don't think I'm ready for all of this growing up nonsense.
My six year old son weeps loudly, mourning the unfortunate crumpling of his beloved tricycle, vehicle of his babyhood. The only thing that could have been louder than my six year old son weeping loudly was, in fact, the world's loudest and most obnoxious vintage orange tricycle that had just been rendered useless by a white Chevy 5000 van.
Half of me mourned with Wee Man, half of me celebrated quietly that the roadside score of five years ago had finally died.
You know how it is, right? Six of one, half dozen of another.
My two year old seizes every opportunity to shout, READY! DET! GO! Because now, after two and a half years, he is finally starting to get ready to walk away from my shadow. I say finally not because I've been waiting and waiting for him to discover independence, but because I have been watching babies younger than him do crazy things like (gasp) not sit on their mama's laps twenty hours a day, and (gasp, gasp) play in a room where the mama is not. I have wondered if he will be sitting on my lap while waiting to take his driver's test.
Suddenly he is a dervish, running around with the Big Boys, shouting and playing and instigating and fighting back.
And so it goes.