We were snowed in and I was somewhat caught up with my housekeeping and the laundry was all done and folded.
My younger boy was in his room downstairs and the older one was at work.
And, it came over me.
I began to miss my sons, both of whom were very reachable.
One was so near I could hear his television.
The other had already called and texted several times during the day as is his normal routine.
I realized I was missing an era, the times they were both on top of me, getting in my way. I was missing them running all over the house, chasing each other, doing cart-wheels and landing on the sofa, skateboarding from the kitchen to the living room.
I was missing their rapid shift from fast friends to seeming enemies they so mastered and I was missing how they’d immediately made up as soon as I tried to play peacemaker.
The baby years, the toddler years, I was missing the us we were, and it all seemed to hit me at once, a kind of emotional jet-lag taking its toll.
Oh, I love them exactly as they are.
I want them to be exactly where they are.
But something deep inside was longing for what was.
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