Moving Out

My son is a bit too giddy as he packs his things into his car to move into the apartment he will soon share with his bride. He’s leaving our home for good and shows no glimmer of sadness or tear-stained cheeks. Shouldn’t he at least appear to be despondent at moving away from me, the one who bore him in pain and agony, changed his blowouts, helped him with his math (at least until 4^th grade), washed his grass-stained jeans, listened to 14 billion choir performances  and watched  all those boring baseball games? At least he could do a little acting and pretend like he will miss take and bake Papa Murphy’s on Friday nights! To him, this is just like moving to college four years previously. To me, this is for.ev.er.

To Nick, it’s just another move to add onto the 10 previous over the span of 3 states. One more is nothing to him. His new wife, in 15 days to be exact, definitely has a more appropriate response departing her family. Apparently, she loves them more deeply. I’m sure it has nothing to do with her being a girl or the fact that she’s resided in her home, well, ALL of her life, and the myriad of memories, mementos and moments that are plastered on the beams of her home and in her heart. Living in one place can certainly make one a bit more sentimental about sifting through and packing up belongings collected over 21 plus years. Living like a gypsy, however, allows one to not bat an eye when the door slams shut.

Perhaps, he might shed one tear when we dance to Rascal Flatt’s, “My Wish,” during the Mother-Son dance as he looks into my eyes and ponders my terrificness. Fond memories like lunches with fruit snacks, mounds of clean laundry unfolded on the couch (another wrinkled shirt to wear) and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner again will bring a drop of water to one eye. Or, maybe it’s just my heels stepping on his toes. Whatever; a tear is a tear, and I’ll take it!