Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Perfectly timed with my unspoken threat to run away with the circus, my biggest sister stepped in and swept my children away from me, all the way to Massachusetts, overnight for two nights.
They've been away for less than 24 hours, and I am beside myself with the strangest mix of apprehension, giddiness, liberation, and the most profound sense that something, something essential to my identity, something etched into my bones and sewn into my soft tissue, is missing. There are ghosts in this house.
Madness, I tell you. It's madness.
And would it shock you to hear that the first instinct I had upon their departure, strapped in and grinning in my sister's car with nary a regret, was to lie down and go to sleep until morning.
How funny life is when the most exciting part of being apart from your kids is the ability to completely disregard pedestrian schedules.
Of course there are a million things I could be doing to take advantage of the fact that no one, no one, needs me right now--okay the dog keeps barking to go out, then come in, then go out again, but I can handle that--and I am practically paralyzed by choice.
I'm also haunted by the imprint my kids have left in my mind and on this house.
And the serenity that comes with playing on the floor.
And the joy of making a pair of dress-up falsies, or "implants" as Essie calls them.
Or the two of them running down the hill to the library the other day. Honestly, can we get any closer to Walnut Grove?
With the little Mermaid in bondage.
Or one of our final summer days at the lake.
With actual time to read