I’ve been guilty of the “Take my kids – please” joke.

They can be so much to handle sometimes. Three of them, fighting, screaming, playing, appointments, school, being a teenager, being girls super close in age…

It all piles on into insanity sometimes.

So it’s to be expected that we eagerly let the kids go to their grandparents for a few days.

Or anticipate Denver’s week-long Scout camp.

I mean, they aren’t far.

It’s not a long time

But now.

This time.

It’s two weeks.

Two long weeks.

The teen is hiking through the mountains of New Mexico with Scouts.

He’s taking in views like this:

At 8000 feet above sea level.

Hundreds of miles away from me.

From us.

Two weeks.

A piece of my heart…

An annoying, teenage, piece…

A piece that is my first born.

It’s not within reach.

It’s a really sucky feeling.

I love that he’s doing something that might be once-in-a-lifetime.

That he’s taking another step forward in independence.

That he’s having a great time.

But a part of me aches.

And it will until he’s home again.