The Boy has called me six times in the past two days.
Six times. That's five more times than he called me during the whole of last month. He wasn't even asking for money. He needed minor problem solving help and to report his progress.
He had his last exam Saturday. His sophomore year is over. He's cleared out of the dorm, stashing the stuff he's not taking with him for the summer at a friend's house. His bags are packed in preparation to board a big ole jet airliner for Montana in two days.
He's also been scouring furnishings abandoned by students who will not be returning next year. He and his buddy will need things to furnish their off-campus apartment next fall. That's right. An apartment. Off-campus, but within walking distance. My baby has signed his first lease. I think that makes him an adult.
I don't know what is more depressing: him moving all the way across the country for the summer or him being old enough to have his own apartment.
What is really depressing is my prolonged inability to get past my "empty nest" issues. I mean geez. Do I think I'd be happier if he was wrapped around me like a piece of saran wrap, unable or unwilling to make decisions on his own? Or how about if he was making bad decisions? Would that make me happier?
Well duh. Of course not.
I just miss him, I guess.
So I say, "Self? Self! Enough already!"
Not surprisingly, Self isn't paying attention.
She's such a stubborn biddy.