The smell of fresh bread this morning marked the beginning of another chapter in a book that’s becoming more page-worn. In a tradition that goes back probably a decade, if not more, the fact the bread machine contributed to the morning indicated it was the first day of school. This year is a little different, though. Only the youngest daughter set off for this morning, embarking on her junior year of high school.
Middle daughter departs at the end of the week to begin her college career. Still no verdict on whether the parental units will go and help her move into the dorm. I recall the joy of just heading off to school on my own with my car loaded up . Yet as her college school is 5 1/2 hours away, I might feel a bit of guilt if she has to spend her last night before college in a motel room by herself. Even odds or greater, though, that she really gives a rip one way or the other. (The kid is way, way, way too much like me at that age for her mother’s good.)
Oldest daughter won’t return for her last year of undergrad until the end of the month. This trip will be different than her previous ones, though. She’s heading back with her right leg still in a large brace and undergoing physical therapy from a torn MCL suffered more than six weeks ago. While she’s worried about looking goofy, I tell her to focus on being healed up for her trip to Egypt at the end of the year.
I think that with her sisters heading out, the youngest is a little concerned about being left on her own to deal with the parents. I anticipate the cell phone and computer messaging amongst themselves will increase dramatically.
This new chapter also helped me identify with the author of the “My Turn” column in the latest Newsweek, who, having recently “crossed the 50-yard-line,” observed that “my life was running through my hands like water.” I wonder if he hears the same increasing variety of noises my joints and bones seem to make whenever I move? Oh, to be as seemingly ageless as the bread machine.
And then one day you find ten years have got behind you.
No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.
“Time,” Pink Floyd, Dark Side of the Moon