I know I’m not the first mother to ever experience the sadness of their last child moving out of the house, but that knowledge doesn’t make this day any easier for me. I watched as my husband and son loaded boxes into his truck and it felt as though my very heart was pierced. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to run out there and tell them to stop. I wanted my son to turn around and say he couldn’t do it. I wanted my husband to convince him to stay.
Or so I thought.
Actually, what I really wanted was the little boy my son used to be to come running inside with a handful of dandylions. His face consumed in a smile and his chest puffed out as proud as he could be that he found his mommy the prettiest flowers ever in her favorite color. I wanted my little girl to climb into my lap with her favorite book for me to read to her for the hundredth time and smell the scent of her hair as she snuggled deeply into my arms. I wanted to feel needed again.
No, I want to feel needed again.