Home Alone

I have a confession:

I will be terrible at being an empty nester.

Despite my eye on The Teen’s room as a knitting/reading/yoga sanctuary, I missed her terribly while she was away.

Despite my celebrating, countdowns, and obnoxious ribbing to friends with younger kids, with both kids out of the house, I’m lost.

Trying to cook for just the Mister and myself, I made too much food. Tripping over junk

The Teen has been taking Europe by storm, a disembodied voice relaying her feelings of the way the other side of the world lives (France is dirty. People relieve themselves in the street. Eww).

The Boy missed her, but took advantage of her absence and my dropped defence by weaselling extra trips to Wawa, the movies, and a Game Fly subscription. Now The Boy is at a week long overnight camp with The Boy Scouts.

When I tell people I’m sans kids, I have received every suggestion from watching what I want to see on TV to hitting the town.

In reality I’m crossing the days off for them to return home.

Don’t misunderstand. I love that dinner will not have an obligatory fart joke or my need to explain about the necessity of vegetables. Chuggaaconroy won’t be blasting through the house and that We Are Young song isn’t competing with the cats for me to wake up.

I also know that the summer of 2012 is the year The Teen learned to navigate international travel and The Boy learned how to walk safely from camp to Queenie’s. This is the year that all of the tears I’ve cried while the kids enjoyed themselves were dried as I realized The year that I realized the sacrifice for my children was worth it all and how proud I am of them both. It’s also the summer I learned that despite me, my kids are growing up and I have a choice:

Get busy living or get busy crying.

It’s horrible that for so many years my life has revolved around my children. Decisions to do certain things