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.