Two Weeks

My son has been living with me for two weeks now.  After 4 years of every other weekend visits, two weeks seems like the blink of an eye, and an eternity all at the same time. A joyful, amazing, awesome and inspiring blink of eternity...

I suppose that is what life is like though, anything hard as well as anything sublime - time speeds up and slows down all at once for an incredible time-warp sci-fi illusion in your heart.  It must have to do with the fact that even when your heart stops completely in your chest from fear, or anger, or joy, life simply continues on and the mundane minutia of life continues.

I have worked with my son on a final project for school - hours of editing and pulling words out of the air to compose one extra paragraph for an essay, using our imaginations to expose what we think an artist meant to convey by using a certain color - and it has been bonding time for us.  But during those hours camped in front of the computer I have also had to wash dishes, sort laundry, feed the baby, pull the baby out of the garbage/toilet/pantry countless times, taken the dog out to pee, and still had to go to work and come home again.  Like I said, mundane minutia a midst amazing bonding.

I've also had to nag.  Can I say that nagging has been a joyful experience without sounding like I'm mentally unstable?  Actually, my son and I have both enjoyed the nagging.  For me, it's a pleasure to have to remind him to pick up his underwear or wet towel, to move his shoes, to shut the door - because those are words of love, of training, words that a "parent" must speak.  For him, it's been a pleasure because it speaks of love, of attention, of someone looking out for him, words meant to surround him with "mother-ness".  Something he has missed so very much.

I worry.  I worry about my daughter now left behind at her fathers house.  She doesn't seem to mind, really.  Shes a simple soul, easy to please, easy to love, easy going, and is glad that her big brother is safe, happy, and finally at peace here with me.  She is glad there is less stress and fighting in the house where she is.  She is glad, even more so now, to actually spend time with her brother when they are here together.  But I worry anyway.  I worry that she is lonely, alone, defenseless.  She assures me, and so does my son, that there is nothing to worry about.  But isn't that what a mother does? Worries?

Four years of worry... chronic, aching, pinching, overwhelming worry now pared down to two weeks worth concentrated all on her.  Ouch. I'm so tired of worry.

Two weeks of bliss, worry, bonding, nagging, and laundry...  two weeks of a decidedly messier house, a louder house, a busier house, and yet the empty place where my daughter should be seems even MORE noticeable now that I am so aware of her being alone.

My son will be off to college after next year... the time will fly by so fast that I will hardly have time to love him enough before he's gone.  But for now I am going to relish the two weeks we've had and I will let tomorrow take care of itself.