I don’t think I have more fun than hanging with my kids. Last night two of the three plus daughters-in-law were here for dinner, celebrating a birthday and anniversary (not mine). Easing into the weekend with a lot of laughter, some serous sidebars and multiple chances to wrap my arms around these amazing people who I love with all that I have and then some.
Adult children don’t necessarily say adorable, wondrous things that can delight both parent and reader. Their bodies no longer resemble the round, magically smelling perfection that I can still remember with all my senses. They have to bend down to kiss me – a completely inverted calculation. And yet, as often as we see each other (which is thankfully, often), as easily as we still share the thoughts in our heads and the secrets of our hearts – I am always left in tears when they head back to their homes. I cry with gratitude – they are the most remarkable people; I cry with disbelief, for I truly don’t know where the time has gone (I mean really – have you seen me lately? Who would think I would have a 30, 28 and 25 year old) and I cry because every time they go away, I want to keep them with me. Corny stuff, huh? I know, but there is no other way for love like this to be articulated – we’re past poopy diaper jokes, dirty baseball uniforms and unexpectedly found condom wrappers. What we’re left with is a perfectly imperfect family, that continues to return to itself to restore, renew and reaffirm this story which is as old as time itself.
My boys…my boys…
Waiting for the Karma Truck 