I have poised and industrious, dignified, competent children. I should be completely over the moon. And honestly, I am. Don’t get me wrong. But a really big part of me wishes they’d go back to being 6 again so we could do the last ten years over again. (Maybe this time with money.)
They’re sixteen. I know I’ve done my job. If I died tomorrow, they’d be just fine. And I think that’s the problem, They just don’t need me as much as they used to. They are doing exactly what I hoped they’d do – they’re looking OUT now. Driving, dual enrollment in college and high school, tests, babysitting, developing relationships and skills they’ll need as adults.
And while I’m very proud, I am also feeling the melancholy of it. I’m not getting empty arms syndrome in the usual sense, or depression. I’m not craving a new baby, nor am I in need of medication.
I just didn’t have long enough. I recall like it was yesterday when these girls were little bouncy headed things that bashed into my legs when they ran. Now they are taller than me.
I need more time with my babies.
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