Ever catch yourself getting teary over something that hasn’t even happened yet?
Ironic that our blogging community leader should ask us to write about a future point in time and what our expectation of what life will be like then—as just earlier tonight I was envisioning dropping my daughter off for college in another four years. And begging her unsuccessfully not to go.
In short, I am not looking forward to it.
And lest my sons read this at some point and think their baby sister is hogging all the crazy mommy tears, no. I can get just as weepy at the thought of their leaving the nest, too. It’s just … my baby girl. She’ll be the last, and I already know her departure is going to cut like a knife.
Forget that my husband is a planner to a fault. I can and do imagine a magical life in just a few short years—if all goes as planned, it’ll be just us two, once again. Free to explore more of this great city we live in, travel beyond its borders to places we’ve only talked about going, live day-to-day without worry of who has to go to which sports practice or musical rehearsal, or who we’ll need to pick up from work.
That’s all good. I can imagine a home without backpacks and dirty clothes and half-eaten leftovers and fights over who took the last Easy Mac or Klondike bar. I can do without getting hit up for field trip cash, a ride to a friend’s house or a half-dozen pairs of really stinky sneakers inside my front door.
But to think about the fact that someday, those baby boys that played with Hot Wheels and shinny sticks and still rough house and giggle and tell “That’s what she said” jokes, and that baby girl who smiles far more than she’s ever frowned, that would dismantle a dresser drawer full of clothes faster than I could fill it, that still twirls around to her radio … to think about not having their physical presence around me—I begin to hyperventilate. Just being able to crawl into bed with any of them for a few moments—whether it’s to watch an episode of Gotham with my boys or just talk … about boys … with my daughter—I crave that physical connection as much as an addict needs a hit.
I’ve tried the tao of Ty Webb on my daughter. This isn’t Russia. You don’t have to go to college. But there’s no stopping her. She’s going to go. In just over four years. I’ve got time.
So rather than think too far ahead, I’m keeping my eyes on the ball. “Be the ball,” Ty says. “See your future, be your future. May, make, make it, make it.”
OK, Ty. OK. Focus on the now, and make the future splendid. Just, please. Not too fast.
When I’m not ruminating over an upcoming 8th grade and high school graduation, I blather about books. Like to read? Need a good suggestion? Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.
I am also on Facebook, trolling for friends. Here are my last few book reviews:
Filed under: Mama Drama