For the past year we’ve dreaded it.
This past Friday arrived. Dreaded, anticipated, excitedly awaited, tearfully faced…
The teen got in his car and drove hundreds of miles away to the land he calls home.
I have been a bit of a mess through the whole thing – and yet I’m proud of how I’ve handled it all. Because, knowing his aversion to overly emotional stuff, I’ve kept my cool, and only been a bit more huggy than usual.
We had our time to talk, and I was emotionally exhausted on the day he left, and been glad for the preoccupation of plenty of other things since he’s been gone.
But there are those times.
Those brief moments…
When it overwhelms.
When I cry.
The empty room.
Soon it will be cleared out and transformed into my home office again.
But it isn’t yet. There are still pieces of him in there.
And we all still pause outside the door expecting to hear Disney music emanating from within.
The quiet nights.
Nightly he would hang out with me after everyone else was in bed…we’d watch a Disney show of some kind, or Star Trek, or just talk with some random show on. No matter what, the boy would be chatting, annoying, teasing, something…
I still sit at my desk and glance at the door expecting him to walk through the door.
It’s the frequent reminding of myself that he isn’t going to walk through that door that hurts.
I know in time I will adjust.
I know that he is happy.
I know that I am incredibly proud.
This empty nest thing hurts…even when you have two more sitting around pestering you.