My son and his family take possession of their new house today. It's pretty, from the pictures I've seen of it, and near the river walk. I imagine them living there, mowing the lawn, going up and down those front steps. I would love to go and see it (and them!) in person. Hopefully this fall.
It's a weird thing to think of my kid being a dad and having a mortgage and a job and doing all those regular adult things. I still think of him as eight and forever falling off his bike. There is a poster on the subway advertising a local college, and the model in the picture looks exactly like my son. It's freaky. Right down to the hat. Whenever I see that poster I sit and gaze at it and wonder. And maybe sniffle a little bit. I haven't seen him in a year and a half. I don't like the feeling of being so stretched in distance from my children. I know it's the normal thing these days, and I'm proud of him for working a job and being an adult. He's a great person and turning into a fine man. But how did he get to be so old? How did I get to be? There are times I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I walk past and my first thought is "What's my mom doing here?"
I want to be there pushing my granddaughter in a swing at the park, poking at bugs in the garden with her, holding her hand to cross the street. It seems like only a few days ago that I was holding her dad's hand, helping him explore the world.