They Were Small Once

There was a time when my children were small. This might not seem like a profound realization, but it is. Most people my age or younger, have small children. Babies, toddlers, elementary school kids. They blog about cute things four year olds say, little league and the stresses of dealing with diapers, bathtime and family time. I, on the other hand, am planning my oldest daughter's wedding while praying that my youngest will graduate high school (which it looks like he won't).

I yearn for the simpler times. This growing up stuff is the pits. For them. For me. Remember when you wanted to grow up and be an adult and make your own decisions? I'm seriously thinking of asking my parents if I can move back home. I'll be good, I promise. Hell, I'll take out the trash, keep my room clean...hell, I'll pay the mortgage

I was reading a blog recently by a guy who has three small children. He's a good writer and he seems to have a wealth of material to draw from with three boys. What was I doing when my kids were small? How come I wasn't writing?

Maybe I'm having trouble with perspective. The things I THINK I have to write about don't seem humorous, interesting, or even mildly educational. I'm more irritated than anything.

I shouldn't be. My daughter got engaged, was actually able to find a house, and a mortgage in this economy. She has a good job and she's not only moved out, she's getting married in a few months. Why am I not overjoyed at this? It's not like I'm not proud of her, because I am. I'm most pleased.

Maybe, like I said, I just miss those more intimate moments when it was us and them. No cars, dates, jobs, or friends. They went wherever we went. They did what we did and ate what we ate. If Jane and I decided to go to the beach, they went to the beach. Now, we're lucky if we see them for a meal.

I guess, I'll just have to wait for grandkids.