I promised myself I wasn't going to get all weepy and stuff over the fact that my house will soon be stuffed to the ceiling with clean towels.
It's going to feel a little like Bed, Bath and Beyond around here. I might even start using a different one for my hair, like the teenagers do.
But it might be a while before I can enjoy it.
It's not easy contemplating the idea that the little boy who wouldn't let go of your leg on the first day of preschool, and who once vowed to marry you when he grew up, if you were not dead by then, is now ready to take up residence 2,015.3 miles away.
Give or take.
And he won't even let you buy him a lunchbox, let along a hand vacuum for his dorm room. Which is a good idea no matter how much he mocked you for suggesting it.
Whatever. If he wants to live in crumbs, that's his choice. He's a college student now. Also, he would have no idea how to operate it.
My point is, it's a huge achievement for us both and there will be a lot to celebrate once we have made the necessary emotional adjustments and come to terms with the staggering amount of debt and fresh linen.
But first there is a four-hour flight to Los Angeles with Boy, Esq. this afternoon and the 400-hour return flight by myself on Friday, where anyone dumb enough to take the seat next to me is going to have to look at my sonogram pictures from 1995.
You've been warned.