Sometimes I look at my children in utter amazement that they are mine. They came to be because of me and my husband. They are such miraculous creations and are becoming more and more independent, which is right and good and healthy.
And makes me want to cry. I know, I know, they can't stay babies forever, they've got lives to live, but my son is eleven and my daughter is nine. In seven or eight years they could be out living on their own working or going to college. The mind boggles.
Very big changes are lurking within them. Puberty will be experienced at the same time as perimenopause--good luck to my poor husband on that score.
It is hard to let your kids go when they need to go do whatever it is they're doing. You want to shield them from any suffering, but that's not a life, that's prison. They have to get out there in the world and taste what it has to offer, and stumble and fall and get back up again. I'm working hard on letting go, but it ain't easy.
Nobody said it would be.
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