Today James moved out of the house he's spent most of his 19 years in. He's moving into his first home away from the parental home(s).
It's a pit -- perfect for a household of young men ;-)) I was appropriately appalled.
I'm torn between elation -- what color shall I paint the upstairs walls? Can I afford to include a skylight in the plans for the new bathroom on the 2nd floor? -- to tears.
The tears appeared when I was taking a load of his laundry downstairs to wash. On the basement landing was the electrical cord he'd bought last year -- surprising me, at Christmastime, with lovely lights along the 2nd floor's roofline and the new porch downstairs. And I thought: "Putting up Christmas lights will, from now on, only be something he does in his *own* home."
Oh geez. The tears are streaming down my cheeks as I write this. I'm so proud that he feels capable of moving out and being on his own. And at the same time, I feel the loss of his leaving.
Welcome to the rest of my life. My parenting duties have officially morphed into something new and different - and I find myself feeling very peculiar about it all.
I expect it will take me a while to realize I no longer need to leave the porchlight on.