I miss my oldest daughter.
She grew up, the way that kids do, and moved out, the way that kids do. It was all very normal and expected and I was actually very proud of her and happy for her independence and maturity. I didn’t necessarily approve of all the choices she made, but they were HER choices to make, not mine, and I loved watching her make them and then deal with the results. Much the way you can find pleasure and joy and excitement watching a baby learn to crawl – those first few face-plants and rug-burns and all. My daughter is a delight to me. Yes, I worry and fret and agonize; sometimes I lecture and nag and nitpik; and I even apologize when I’ve gone on too long, the way that mom’s do sometimes. But overall, she is such a joy and delight and source of pride as well as inspiration, and I miss her.
After living on her own in town for a year, she moved 3000 miles away to live with her boyfriend and be closer to his family. It’s been almost 3 years now and I really think it’s time they came back for awhile. I miss her. I miss shopping, chatting, being bored with her even. I just plain miss her presence in my life.
We were talking last night and I started whining about it – “I miss you! Why can’t you guys live here for awhile? Why can’t you get jobs here? Just for a year or so, it’s MY turn to have you near…” and snivel whine snivel for another few minutes until I was getting annoyed with myself – as she must have been too. Queen of Guilt Trip Inc., that’s me!
But at the end of it all, it’s still the same. I miss her. Her siblings miss her. I don’t want her to miss this new baby coming, and I don’t want this new baby to miss out on having such an awesome big sister around. And I’m tired of missing my girl, my firstborn, my best friend.
Chickadee, come home.