Two. Three. Four. Five. Two

That's how it starts out. Two.

Two join hands and agree to weather the storms -- and pledge to laugh through as many of them as possible.

Then, somewhere along the line, the two decide to become three, then four, then five.

And then before you know it, one goes, then two. And, then suddenly, there it is. The baby has grown up and there she goes, on a wing and a multitude of prayers.

So five become two again.

It's been twenty-five years since it's been just the two of us. Of course, it's different than it was -- back then, there was nobody -- now there is still somebody, just not continuously under the same roof.

My children are all different -- night and day and something in between. Each one holds a piece of my heart in their hands.

This one -- this last one to fly -- is a mini-me. Except for the majoring in biology-thing and the ability to cipher. I mean, really, exactly what is calculus? What do you use it for? Otherwise, we have the same slightly off-kilter sense of humor, we don't suffer fools gladly and we can spend a lot of time alone with a book and a dog (or five) and be perfectly happy. And we're both addicted to Say Yes to the Dress. And Vera Bradley and shoes. Well, I can say that about my oldest child, too, so that apple-not-falling-far-from-the-tree story must have some truth to it.

I'll adjust to the relative silence -- though with all of these critters now left in my care, it's not that quiet. But there's a voice missing. A footstep I'm not hearing. And nobody asking, "what's for dinner?" After twenty-nine years, hubby has learned what not to ask if he wants a pleasant evening.

I don't much like this new normal but it's the way of things. The birthing, the growing, the leaving. It's the way it's supposed to work.

So, the snipping sound you hear is me, cutting the apron strings.

But the door remains, always and forever, open.