Lloyd is my first born, and after a month at home (following a season abroad), we deposited him back at the university.
This. This is my first morning of my first week alone in the home since before Thanksgiving.
I work at home. I require clear space to do my work. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally.
After a month of sweet chaos together, Lloyd’s final week home was so turbulent as to render the separation less severe. (Think episiotomy.)
The tension reached its physical climax, however, on our final morning together, as we stood face to face, above the last box, in a tug of war–with a kettle.
I knew that the unpacking of this last box wasn’t entirely rational, especially since it was already loaded into the car.
But it wasn’t organized. It had a jumble of food and pharmacy and odds and ends that had no business together; and more importantly, I couldn’t tell if he had everything he needed. Without me.
So before he got up, I unpacked it and resorted it–into like items–each with their own smaller box; and then I dashed around the house, adding things–like tea, and bandaids and peanutbutter.
When he came down the stairs to the sight of this intrusion, he was appalled. He started throwing everything back into the larger box; while I tried to stop him. Like the tide. Of time. And life. And love.
The kettle was large enough that we could both have our hands on it at the same time. We each pulled in our own direction.
“Let me have this,” I said, and I didn’t mean the kettle.
Please, let me have this irrational, let-me-do-this-last-thing-for-you, mother-panicked, moment.
And he did.