She's off and running every day.
I feel a sense of relief when my husband has pulled away with her, off to school and for him to work.
I shut the door and feel like, whew, I got her out of here and off to another day.
And then I look around the house.
It's so quiet.
I enjoy it. A little bit. I definitely do.
There were parts of me that were waiting, desperately, for these moments.
And there are parts of me that feel that relief and want to roll around in it. Absorb it wholly. Fully. Eat it right up.
I can write. Read. Watch TV. Pretend I am working. Or try to work on whatever crosses my mind.
I can work out! So important. I've met my bike again, after all these years. I can use the Wii fit without someone asking when it's her turn.
I can have pizza for breakfast. And I did. Today.
I can cry. Bawl my eyes out.
Over whatever it is I want.
September 11th. The tragedy overseas. Loss of life.
Cancer. Sometimes it doesn't matter if I know the person who has it - it just hits me so hard and scratches me raw and I want to cry and so I do. I can now. Since she is at school.
I cannot say she is gone. She is never gone.
She is in the pile of toys I find shoved into the couch.
She is in the stray socks searching for their mate throughout the house.
She is on my DVR as Octonauts records. And Wipeout. So many episodes of Wipeout.
The soaked sink in my bathroom because she let the water run so long.
The spritzed mirror and a half empty spray bottle.
Scraps of paper and drawings scattered across our dinner table.
The extra space and organization needed to store her lunch supplies. School drawings. Paperwork for moms and dads.
The safety scissors I slipped into the bucket of random on my desk.
The stuffed puppy dog shoe that sits to the right of my laptop.
She's here, but she's there.
She'll be home soon. Before I know it.
And I'll rush. I'll squeeze in a workout because I wasn't ready to do it sooner.
I'll try to figure out dinner.
I'll dig out her Girl Scout tunic.
Where's Pounce? I hear her say. But she isn't really asking.
He's in bed. He doesn't come downstairs every day anymore. This makes finding him at bedtime much, much easier.
No extra butt to wipe.
No open fridge or pantry.
I'm happy she is growing, learning, experiencing.
And yet ... I miss her.
A little bit.
The bus pulls up in the afternoons and I pray for a good ride home.
She struggles. Can't sit still. Can't stop talking.
Most of the time we don't cover it all until we're under the covers together.
But it's good.
And for me.
Even if I do miss her sometimes.
This post has been linked up with Pour Your Heart Out over at Things I Can't Say.