There is no title for this post. It is too scattered, too random.
The neighbor “Boy” is playing his guitar in his garage. He’s 17. He thinks his future career is in music.
The chords-especially the long low ones- vibrate through my windows, nearly an acre away.
I don’t mind.
He is 17. His gorgeous blonde hair is dyed black. He has big dreams.
I have pictures of him when he is three or four, digging in the dirt with our boys. Cherry juice smeared across their faces.
Our oldest son is in New Orleans. He’s gone on an “Immersion;” a school-based service trip.
He’ll be gone all week. He leaves for University in just a few, short months.
Our daughter is on the couch, doing homework. She’s disappointed because I won’t take her driving right now.
She’s 15. She already drove 45 minutes today. I say I’m done for the day, I am relaxing now.
She says I can relax while she drives.
I am feeling like I have missed something… that I’m not quite the parent that I believed I was.
I am not as good as I thought I was.
I’m sorry. I DID say this was pretty random.
This letting go is so hard.