I'm leaving to drive my daughter to college in little more than hour. The car is packed to the gills with the stuff that is her life - a tub of shoes, new, college-girl bedding, some of her favorite books. Harry Potter goes, but Tamora Pierce stays. John Steinbeck and Jane Austen made the cut, but Fitzgerald and Hemingway get left behind. Enough make-up, hair product, and body wash for the entire cast of Glee.
I woke up at 3:30 a.m., desperately sad. She has gone away before, but there has always been the knowledge that she would come home in a few days, a week or so at the most. Her dad is wondering who will watch Survivor with him. I will be alone for my movie marathons, unless I can get my son - who is only 14 - to watch with me. That means no rom coms, no Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, but I can indulge my secret love of super-hero adaptations with no guilt whatsoever.
I keep telling myself that I'm happy for her, and of course I am, because this is right. It is right that she is going to take her brilliant mind and spend four years honing it and learning and growing up and away from us. I want her to go.
But, I don't want her to go. I want her to stay. Fuck. I am going to miss her every day.