I just dropped off the Kindergarten registration forms for my son. My baby. My youngest. As I handed over the papers I got a lump in my throat. I turned my head so the cranky school secretary wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. Tears of sadness, yes, but also tears of WOO-FREAKIN-HOO!
I haven’t been alone in my house for more than a few hours in almost nine years. I can’t even imagine what a full day will be like. What will I do? I’ll have so much time! Time to exercise! Time to talk on the phone! Time to write in silence! My house won’t get trashed by 9am (it’ll get trashed at 2pm instead). That means six hours of spotless, exercising, phone-talking, writing silence, people. SIX WHOLE HOURS!
I talk a big game, but in reality I’ll probably be paralyzed by the luxury of time. I suspect I won’t know what to do with it. I’ve been running at 4,000 miles per hour for nearly a decade spending every waking moment cleaning, cooking, wiping butts (wait- who is going to wipe my son’s butt at school?) and trying to fit work in between. I’m so used to the chaos, I’m actually a little terrified of the silence. My life, my identity, is so wrapped up in having young kids at home. Who will I be without the chaos? I mean, “chaos” may as well be my middle name these days. The thought of being without my kids all day scares me. Scares me, but also makes me really freakin’ excited.