It’s 9:06 a.m.
Two minutes past the last time I looked. The drive to the grocery store feels almost leisurely, subdued.
It’s because I’m alone.
My youngest is not at home hangin’ with Grandma. Or with his dad. Or at drop-off daycare.
He is at his first day of Preschool.
And I am alone.
After several pictures at home and a few at school, he dropped his book bag in the basket and I watched him walk into his classroom. He did not turn around. He did not look back. He did not wave. He only looked ahead, around the corner, entering the classroom eagerly and with great curiosity. It was like the gates opened and he took off, free to roam and run, free to explore and learn. Free to fully grasp whatever was in store.
I could not peer, I could not linger, I could not be a part of it.
So I simply turned around and walked back to the car, heading off to Fred Meyer without having to look at “xbox” (Matchbox) cars for the first time in years.
Now I listen to the sounds of the quiet, empty house while he is off building his own community, making friends, learning Bible stories and growing up.
It’s a beautiful, strange, wonderful, joyful and bittersweet day.
It’s 10:22 a.m.
And I am still alone.