Thursday, May 5, 2016

The view from here

About a year ago, I thought maybe the best part of my life was drawing to a close.  My oldest child was getting ready to graduate and leave the nest and my youngest child was getting ready to go to public school.

Nothing would ever be the same and it all just felt sad.

Nothing is the same but I'm here to report that it is still good.

I loved homeschooling.  I don't regret one minute of time spent at that pursuit.  I even offered Emma and Mark the other day that if they wanted me to, I would home school my grandchildren.  Emma said, "Um...I'm not going to live in Utah."

Well, then.

Having my kids in school is sort of an introvert's dream though.  All day I have my own schedule and my solitude and then I'm happy to see them and spend the afternoon and evening with them.  It turns out I like it.

It also turns out I like having a son on a mission.  It hasn't been easy.  Sometimes I miss that guy so much that it physically hurts.  And when he's struggling?  You might as well rip my heart out.

But he's also learning and growing in ways I kind of assumed he would and in ways I didn't even dream about.  He's becoming a man.  (Which is weird, because he's my baby boy.)  He's finding reserves of strength and resilience.  He's working hard.  I can tell in ways big and small that he's different.

Except for the parts of him that aren't different at all.



Same. Old. Braeden.

One unexpected side effect of a missionary son is the added closeness it has made me feel to Adam.  We are in this together.  We understand how much the other one misses Braeden.  We read his letters and with just a look, communicate how we feel about what we've read.

I like being married to Adam.

Don't think I'm saying my life is perfect.  I'm not eating sugar, how perfect could it be?  I have the strong willed children (the only easy going one is currently in Virginia).  I have all the hassles and mundane tasks and obligations that are part of life.

Still, life is good.  I'm happy.

That's my report.



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