I try not to write about my own children too much — I don’t want them to feel exploited or exposed. But this is really about me. (It’s always about me.)
This morning I dropped off my older son for a band trip. These little rites of passage are stinging me, like a hornets’ nest that’s just starting to awaken and swarm. I know the rush and run to “adulthood” is imminent with this one. The stings are just beginning.
Do you have the cash I got for you? Check. Do you have your instrument? Check. Cell phone charger? Yes. And we were at the drop-off door. For a split second, I went to hug him, but it felt awkward. It never has before. I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of other chaperones or band mates that might be watching. As I drove away, I misted up (as I am now, writing it, reliving it). I send an IM to my husband later, and he said, as a mom, I have a license to hug anytime. I wish I had exercised my right.
Guess I’ll just have to hug him twice when he gets home. Lesson learned. It’s going to be a long weekend.
