Today has been a day of lasts. It is A~’s last day at home. We had our last family dinner with her (I barely sat down). She babysat the youngers for the last time while I ran errands. And now, as I am throwing in the towel for the night and figuring we’ll get out the door in the morning whenever we manage to get out the door, as I am having one last cry in my bed before we take her away, I hear music slightly blaring from the basement as my three daughters have one last sisters’ “party” together. That should make me happy. I wish I had room in my heart to feel all of the positive emotions I should be feeling right now.
They are spending time together and enjoying it.
A~ is going to the university she has always wanted to attend, it is a competitive school, and she has a full-tuition academic scholarship.
She is getting out of the small town she loathes.
She will finally be among people like her.
What mother wouldn’t be thrilled over all of that? I am thrilled for her, really I am. But I am so steeped in grief that I can’t even feel it. I know I’m being dramatic. She’s alive, she’s healthy, she’s moving on as she should. Yet my heart is exploding with the loss.
We leave tomorrow, but we still have a week and a day with her before we leave her. I try to console myself with that, but if I’ve learned anything in the past seven days, it’s that a week goes by way too quickly.
My older friends who have been through this already tell me that, contrary to what one might think, it doesn’t get easier with each child. Five more to go after this one. I can’t even imagine going through this five more times.
There I am, being all dramatic again with my first world, successful kid problems. I can’t help it. It hurts. I’m a mom.