I have not been a mother this weekend. Or a wife, for that matter. On Friday my gang left to go on a youth ski weekend. Even the little guy, who I guess is not so little any more. And I was left with the laundry and the long list and a new book and plans for a solitary grand time.

Let me just say I am nowhere near ready for the empty nest, yet. I miss my boys. I miss their presence in my life. I miss talking to them and feeding them and hugging them. And solitude, well, I’m going to need a little practice before I’m any good at it.

The practice of quiet. You wouldn’t think it would be that hard.

The truth is, the book was barely opened and the laundry, well, I just walked by like a bad Samaritan and pretended I didn’t see it. That list didn’t get much shorter, and the creative in me just couldn’t seem to create. And the long yesterday that I had planned to fill with these things simply came and went, and the destination was a mystery to me.

Do I not know who I am if I am not a mom?

Some of you, my dear friends, are farther down this road. This, for me, was a trial run. Tell me, please, that it gets easier.

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