From My House To Hers

Having your kids grow up and move away from home is hard.

So much harder than I ever imagined it would be.

I miss my girls.

I miss the hum of our family unit.

The energy.

The constant motion.

The built-in purpose of being needed at any given moment.

I miss their friends coming and going.

The noise.

The late-night laughter.

The familiarity of knowing exactly who would be sitting at the kitchen counter.

I miss my girls.

I took a spontaneous weekend trip to be with my sweet Emily.

She is moving forward,

confidently, beautifully,

into her adulthood and independence.

And still, she needs her mom.

I helped her finish moving into her new apartment.

We packed boxes.

We cleaned.

I got to use a power drill — which felt deeply satisfying.

I assembled an IKEA dresser like a woman who has built many things.

And I battled a cat step glued to the wall with what I am fairly certain was industrial-grade adhesive.

The cat step won.

In between the moving and the scrubbing and the minor home-improvement battles,

we ate delicious food,

explored new places,

talked and laughed and dreamed about what’s next.

It was ordinary and sacred all at once.

There is something about helping your child build her own life,

placing furniture in corners,

hanging things on walls,

standing back and watching her claim space,

that rearranges you, too.

It was perfect.

And still, I miss the way it used to be.