When The Last One Leaves

 The day has finally come. I’ve had at least one child in the home since my first son was born. At the time I was 17 years, 10 months, and 4 days old. Today I am 54 years, 1 month, and 26 days old. There has been at least one child living in my home for the past 36 years, 3 months, and 22 days. 

Thirty six years with at least one still in the nest. 

When all seven kids were still living at home, life was chaotic on a daily basis. 

• Chaotic mornings trying to get everyone up and ready for school on time before getting to work myself, but somehow it got done.
• Chaotic evenings chauffeuring kids to various sports practices, games, and other activities.
• Arguments over food, seats in the vehicle, clothes, and everything in between. 
• Organizing meals for a large family with extremely varying tastes. 
• Baths, bed, pranks played by older siblings and younger ones (many I never knew about until years later, ugh). 
• Dad was a truck driver, worked long hours and was gone often. The kids knew if they wanted something that I wouldn’t agree with, all they had to do was ask dad when he was home and asleep. He would always say yes, not knowing what he was saying. Little turds! 😊

Sometimes, when I was at my wits end, I would stop and remind myself that all of this would end someday.

Today is that someday.

I smiled and waved tonight as I watched my youngest son, my 18 year old baby, pull out of the driveway.  Through aching eyes from holding back tears, I could see the pickup truck was filled to capacity with all of his belongings. I could also  see the excitement on his face as he left to embark on his adult life.

It was at this moment that I realized exactly what it feels like when the last one leaves. 😢