The three empty holes in my heart: I ripped off Build-A-Bear's idea and stuffed a heart filled with kisses and wishes into each of their pockets.
The napkin my homie refused to pack in his lunch, "I can't read yet," he said.
Even though I can no longer stand the sound of her voice, I've stooped to using the title to one of Miley Cyrus' #1 hit songs: "Ready, Set, Don't Go." I must admit I cried tears of joy when I saw her in concert two years ago. Our seats were so close to the stage, we could almost smell the scent of her baby-powder fresh deodorant. I'm a fickle, fair-weather fan and now realize that she's devoid of any real talent, but her song title suits the mixed feelings I've had while returning my homies back to school.
Since 1998, I've waited for the chance to try on clothes, uninterrupted, in a dressing room without three little soldiers all in a row, faces turned opposite of mine. I've dreamed of having lunch where chicken nuggets and hot dogs are not a menu choice. I've pined for the day when I could rock out to The Smiths without protests from the back row, "This song stinks. We want to listen to the Jonas Brothers!"
Today is that day. It's finally arrived, and I don't know what to do with myself. The options are endless and overwhelming. It's like I'm standing naked on an open stage, my hands cupping only what's necessary; I' m completely unprepared, stagnant, and afraid. Last night I told mi Amor,
"I need to find a job, something with structure, predictability. Then I've got to hide behind it. I no longer have an excuse for inefficiency. People will expect perfection, and I'm expecting even more than that. The pressure is unreal."
He told me to relax, to enjoy it. "Do all the things you've dreamed of doing: Go to the gym. Write a book. Blog until your fingers are numb. Go back to school. Go shopping. Build a closet. Organize. Get your hair done. Paint your nails. Read your scriptures. Go to the temple."
"Where do I begin?" I asked.
I've been crying on and off since last night's father's blessings. I already miss my kids like crazy. I drove home, from dropping them off, in a silenced haze, almost missing the entrance into our neighborhood. No one is here standing next to me, typing gibberish like: 2+6456+2+659 33333662, while I'm trying to blog or answer emails. I am now my one and only distraction, and that realization is making me a sick, nervous wreck. I can't stand being alone with myself; we don't get along.
So now I'm counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until their return. We're going to get frozen yogurt when they get home, and I can't wait. We'll talk about how much I've missed them, and about all the latest drama. I won't tell them how naked and alone I feel without them here. I'll tell them to continue spreading their wings, soaring in this beautiful world of opportunity. Then I'll pray I can do the same.