Little Horcruxes

This morning, as I laid in bed, waiting for the sound of little footsteps or a small voice calling out to me, and knowing that I wouldn't hear any of those things, I couldn't help but think "why on earth would I want time to myself?" The irony is that when she is here, I am constantly trying to juggle the things I want and need to do with the things she wants and needs to do, and I just know I could do it all if I only had that elusive thing, time. But look. It isn't true. I'm home alone and at a complete loss. Her absence fills every room. I woke up before Paul did. He got up and went to work. I stayed. He said "get up, lazybones!" I said, "what for?" So there I go. Perspective. What will I do today? Knit. Browse the web. Take a break from doing nothing and clean the only place I can clean: the bathroom. Do more nothing. I guess this "freedom" would be better spent if I could leave the house, but I can't. And I tell myself that what we are doing--all of this-- is good and necessary. We need to get her room ready, both their rooms, actually. I need to be ok with her being away from me every now and then. She needs to be ok with being away from me every now and then. But I still miss her. I missed her the moment I kissed and hugged her goodbye. I went to bed thinking that three nights, one weekend, is a long long time. I woke up listening for her waking up movements, the rustle of her sheets, the yawns and sighs of a well-rested little girl. The house is silent... too silent. Noises I normally don't notice stand out: the hum of the refrigerator, the flowing water of the fish tank filter... Yes, I miss my curly-haired cherub and her quiet loudness that fills my day. A little piece of me is away for the weekend.

I never thought that having kids would be like sending little pieces of my soul out into the world, to discover it, to experience it, to forge their own paths and make their own lives... And here I am, forever attached to them, vulnerable to their sufferings, strengthened by their triumphs, yet able to do little more than teach them, guide them, and try to protect them. What sweet sorrow. What terrible joy. What a paradox, to want so much for them but to want to keep them close for the rest of their lives.
So for the next few days, I can focus on "other things," whatever those may be. A clean house, room preparations for the kids, couple time with my husband. Last night, we both remarked that the house seemed so empty, even though it was well past the time she is normally in bed. I suppose there is comfort in knowing that she is safe, asleep in her bed, just a few steps away. Don't get me wrong; we look forward to spending time together and enjoy it, but we are not complete as just a couple. We are complete as a family, and I wouldn't want it any other way. So today, and this weekend, I will let myself feel a little less complete because I do miss my little Tank Engine.