September winds are on the way. Summer weather is hanging around like a bad house guest who refuses to leave. Pretty soon we’ll be packing the suitcases and hastily pushing them onto the front porch, the awkward goodbyes impetuously tossed around like a kid’s unfinished homework. It was good while it lasted, but for Fallies like me, it’s time to move on to the chilliness, pumpkins and spooks; AKA, THE BEST TIME OF YEAR EVAH.
I love autumn like Mags loves her donuts; fallen onto my lap and gobbled up with feverish joy. The leaves turning colour, the frosty mornings and chilly afternoon sunshine. Early fires and warm coffee with a good book. Warm socks, cozy sweaters and candles lit with vanilla or cinnamon scent. This is the time of year I start the bread making, D1’s birthday, a new school year with challenges and the preparation for Christmas ( I know, I hear you groan). This year, D2 will be coming home after 4 months away and only 2 months left to go in her training. IT’S GOING TO BE AN EPIC CHRISTMAS. She’ll be squished so much, she’ll be begging to go back to the -40 degree temps and desolation of Regina.
The family unit is changing with thoughts of both daughters moving onwards and upwards and the boy starting his second year of Uni peering down the tunnel of med school, career and ultimate move to parts unknown. We’re holding on to the last of the full nest, pondering the future of where they’ll be and where we will end up. It’s a bit daunting, but the natural progression is unstoppable. That train left the station once that new pink fat baby was placed in our arms and we dedicated ourselves to securing her future.
Now, three fat babies later, we have to let them all go. We would rather it be a progression of one at a time, but like a sticky bandage, maybe its better it be ripped off all at once. Maybe it’ll be less painful if all three decided to leave home en masse instead of one at a time.
The boy will be home for the duration of Uni, so that guarantees me another three years. Yay! D1 has one foot out the door with the collecting of “things I’ll need when I move out”. Huh. Am I supposed to help her with that? I think I’ve been suggesting dishes and pots and pans, instead of the marble coaster set and random pink throw she bought, but she looks at me like I have three heads. I’ve clearly failed her as a mother. “I CAN’T COOK” Ugh. My reply: “LEARN. RACHEL RAY IS ON TV FOR A REASON” “Okay, Mom.” Of course then I regrettably say things like “Maybe you’ll get a nice boyfriend who can cook for you, then you’ll NEED nice pots and pans.” She looks at me like this:
Ain’t parenting grand?!
As I hungrily await the first fallen leaf, the first bite of air, and the first murmur of “I’M NEVER COOKING MEAT. EVER.”, I remain ever steadfast in my belief that I am one of the lucky ones. The parent that GETS to see her children grow up and move on; I am one of the privileged ones that is allowed to see my fat pink babies have careers and be employed and be secure in their development. I am ever aware of the unique honour it is to have the opportunity to be here for our children as they become adults, help them move out, and say things like “Gee, that handsome Cardiologist is single…”
And I am eternally grateful for it all…