Two little kids used to be part of my life. They were constant companions, buddies, small partners in our parade of daily adventures. Life was rich for many years with family, sharing, and all the annual milestones that mark the years. Then they grew up and launched their own lives. Most days I’m good with that. I’ve adjusted to them being all grown up. I love this time of life for them, and for myself and Rob. It is mostly good. But now and then, when there’s an event that particularly brings their childhood to mind, I miss them all over again. For a few hours there’s a fresh ache, and it isn’t my 24 and 28 year-olds I miss, but the four and eight year-olds. The ones who couldn’t wait to carve the pumpkin and choose a costume, buy candy to pass out at the door, blow the eggs and dye them at Easter, decorate the tree.
There’s a little prick at my heart each season. I know the time of children has passed for me, and that is as it should be. I have new life experiences around every corner, a lot yet to enjoy and explore, and Rob and I have dreams for our lives together. But just for a while tonight, I missed them.