I woke the other morning and wanted my children.  We’d been on a spring break ski trip together, and my husband and I got up early to fix breakfast each day like when they were younger (I, like my mother, always believed in hot breakfasts) – cinammon rolls, eggs, bacon,  fresh orange juice – and they’d come down bright-eyed, ready for life.   So we had a great trip, lots of fun, and then we came home.   I was glad to be in my own bed – *sigh* –  but when I woke the next morning, my first thought was my children.  For just an instant, I thought they were there, and the house felt full and complete, and I thought, what can I fix for breakfast?  And then I remembered they weren’t there, that they were quasi-adults, living their own lives.

 And I missed them.

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