the order of things

I have to be in a very "strong" place to do what I am doing today, which is basically turning my living space upside down.

It causes one to "take stock" of where one is at in life. Photographs, memorabilia (like movie tickets), baby blankets, BB's rolling around underfoot (still) and other odd knick-knacks suddenly rear up and hit you in the face like a baseball bat being swung by the likes of Babe Ruth. (Nope, not old enough to actually even remember what the guy looked like, but still he's an iconic baseball name so I will keep it as a reference.)

I had a plan, once. My plan failed. I failed. Having a plan and executing the same wisely are two entirely different balls of wax. I had the one but had not been trained, nor counseled, nor schooled in the other.

Now I am older, hopefully a tad bit wiser, though we could likely argue that and I look around and wonder, what next...

My youngest has moved in with his father. I am not being overly dramatic when I tell you that this event has broken my heart (it's getting very used to a regular and constant battering, yeah, welcome to parenthood and life in general [sometimes]).

I have always been acutely aware that my children were to grow up and go have lives of their own. That is the end result of good parenting... but, this particular event came after promises made that it never would (and I don't believe I solicited those promises, but I may've) and this event has come three years, too early, again according to "my plan", he is only 16 and only a sophomore, and I should get to have him for his last three years of high school, and then he can go off and live his life starting at college. But, as I said, mine is a failed plan.

As a result my apartment has been the recipient of a very inclusive overhaul. I have been "cleaning"... and crying. Last weekend my eyes were so puffy I looked "exotic". Today I found baby blankets, and a bag of "saved for more than a decade" artwork and it occurred to me, this time quite clearly, that I had always expected to have another child, and that this was now no longer a possibility, (trust me on this one... I look quite young [for my age] but child bearing is sadly behind me now).

So, I've been "moving in" to my apartment. I know it sounds odd, my youngest just moved out.

I had been hoping to... make a home at some point. I haven't been successful at doing so since the house we inhabited on Viscanio. Moving from that little bungalow, and it was teensy tiny and very, very small, also broke my heart. I knew it was the "end of an era". And, now because my youngest has moved out, I am moving in to this apartment. Mind you I''ve, we've been living here for at least five years, and of late I had been shopping for something bigger. But it turns out the cost of this one is mostly comparable. And, moving is quite expensive.

But, back to the point, I am now moving in. Tossing unwanted stuff. Tidying, shredding old papers... letting go... of hopes, dreams, illusions, desires, details. You name it I'm letting it go... and I'm still crying. I know and have always known that when my children go out into the world and live there on their own, away from me, that I will miss them... daily, constantly, and enormously. You see I like them, I adore them, I admire them. I think they are neato-keen, cool people. And, I know, I have always known, that they must do this. They must go and be themselves.

I will always hope that they will come and visit, and hang out, and linger, often. And, I will hope and strive to be someone they can feel similarly about. Then, perhaps, my plan will have been a success after all.