I recently met three of my young gal pals for coffee and a bagel in a cozy chain restaurant. I'm always amused and greatly flattered that they include me in their invitations exclaiming, "We don't think of you as old!" Funny thing since I'm in the same generation with their moms. I listened as they discussed the possibility of having another baby, the dynamics of disturbing their current family cocoon and the perils of potty training. I sipped my creamy coffee and recalled with warmth those busy days in my home. When burping cloths adorned my shoulder and My Little Pony panties charmed a training toddler.
Currently, those small children that kept me continually in a dizzying pace are now young adults and seeking a place to call their own. My daughter, 26, just signed a one year lease for her first apartment. She's full of excitement. Scouring websites for furniture and shower curtains, wondering how her budget will survive, deciding which wall color to choose and who to invite over first. It's a test in balance. Balancing needs and wants, friends and time, work and play and how often to head to Mom and Dad's. I'm enjoying her anticipation. It reminds me of days when possibilities seemed countless and life stretched so far ahead. She'll do well. And if we're lucky, she'll invite us over for pasta and I'll smile at the warm candles welcoming us on her table.
Our son is sleeping on a couch. Not ours. He wants to live in Nashville and test his dreams in music. Along with two college buddies from the area, he lived in a wonderful renovated house downtown. Great house, lousy neighborhood. After one break-in (which was costly for the roomies), one attempted break-in and 2 cars with windows smashed in 2 separate incidents on the same night - they packed up and moved out. So, for seven weeks, my twenty-two year old musician has been in his words a "gypsy" living out of his car and sleeping on a couch. It's not that they haven't looked. But, it's February and seven colleges in the area are still in session, so the rentals are all full. I know that as the snow melts and temps rise, so will his chances of finding the right place. Still, a mom hates thinking about lumpy couches cradling her kid, no matter the age. And, it doesn't help when he texted today that he's sick. I reminded him of the box of chicken noodle soup I sent in his last "care package". Love in a box.
Transitions. They can be rough at times or smooth sailing. They're never predictable. As they leave, I long to be the mom who hugs with a twinkling eye that says "I believe in you. Enjoy the adventure God has for you ahead." But, as I hear the door close, a piece of my heart will be still. Although both of them are looking for a place to call theirs, I'm hoping they will still think of this house when they long for home. This one has the real chicken noodle soup and a mom who's always waiting at the door.
Currently, those small children that kept me continually in a dizzying pace are now young adults and seeking a place to call their own. My daughter, 26, just signed a one year lease for her first apartment. She's full of excitement. Scouring websites for furniture and shower curtains, wondering how her budget will survive, deciding which wall color to choose and who to invite over first. It's a test in balance. Balancing needs and wants, friends and time, work and play and how often to head to Mom and Dad's. I'm enjoying her anticipation. It reminds me of days when possibilities seemed countless and life stretched so far ahead. She'll do well. And if we're lucky, she'll invite us over for pasta and I'll smile at the warm candles welcoming us on her table.
Our son is sleeping on a couch. Not ours. He wants to live in Nashville and test his dreams in music. Along with two college buddies from the area, he lived in a wonderful renovated house downtown. Great house, lousy neighborhood. After one break-in (which was costly for the roomies), one attempted break-in and 2 cars with windows smashed in 2 separate incidents on the same night - they packed up and moved out. So, for seven weeks, my twenty-two year old musician has been in his words a "gypsy" living out of his car and sleeping on a couch. It's not that they haven't looked. But, it's February and seven colleges in the area are still in session, so the rentals are all full. I know that as the snow melts and temps rise, so will his chances of finding the right place. Still, a mom hates thinking about lumpy couches cradling her kid, no matter the age. And, it doesn't help when he texted today that he's sick. I reminded him of the box of chicken noodle soup I sent in his last "care package". Love in a box.
Transitions. They can be rough at times or smooth sailing. They're never predictable. As they leave, I long to be the mom who hugs with a twinkling eye that says "I believe in you. Enjoy the adventure God has for you ahead." But, as I hear the door close, a piece of my heart will be still. Although both of them are looking for a place to call theirs, I'm hoping they will still think of this house when they long for home. This one has the real chicken noodle soup and a mom who's always waiting at the door.
