I read a touching post about letting your kids go as they grow up.
Beginning to leave a comment, I tap away at the keys, “my two will start ” and my fingers slow to a stop. My mind has caught up.
The buzz of the day has quieted and I sit with reality.
Milestones are cruel.
In infancy there were so many.
One month ago they were born. Four months ago I held her last. They are rolling, sitting, standing.
I could always find an empty space.
But lately? I have done well.
As we prepare our kids to begin preschool I have kept my eyes on the goal.
I have surveyed schools and worried over transitions.
I have enrolled them in sports and story times, taught them to spell their names and put on their coats.
I haven’t let my heart sit in that place.
That place where all that is, meets all that should be.
That place where I am picking out matching outfits for my girls and hoping I’m not the only one who can tell them apart.
That place where I can’t stay for long; the weight of it slowing my writing hands, saddening my dreaming mind.
Ultimately I am back to where I began, staring at a screen, willing my fingers to finish a sentence.
Yearning to be a normal mom, hide my gaping hole.
“My two will start preschool this fall.”
I put it in writing.
And for some reason,
I am surprised one more time,
at how hard it is to believe my own story.
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