Eighteen Days and Counting

For the first time, a Blackhawks sweater (notice, I did not say jersey. I don't want anyone calling me out on that one) has brought me to tears. The waterworks had nothing to do with the fact that the team recently missed the chance to bring home The Stanley Cup for the second year in a row, although I was pretty sad about that back in June. No, the reason that Toews sweater got me teary-eyed was the fact that it was peaking out of one of the boxes taking up space in our dining room; a box bound for Colorado.

I knew my youngest was leaving; he's been talking about it for months. I just didn't really know it until the moment I saw that Indian head logo staring up at me. I can see now that those boxes mean business. Those boxes, including the one that has "Colorado, bitch" written on it, are soon going to be filled with my son's belongings and transported one thousand miles away. They are also making it next to impossible to walk through my dining room without bawling.

So, now the countdown has begun. We have eighteen days left until he backs his Mazda out of our driveway for the last time. (Yes, I know, he's not going to Mongolia; he'll be back for visits.) We have eighteen days to squeeze in as much "in person" time with him as possible before settling for "Face Timing" with him for the foreseeable future. We have two and a half weeks until I have to wave goodbye to my baby.

I don't want you to think that I'm one of those psycho moms that's going to hang on his leg begging him not to go. (Okay, the thought has occurred to me but I know it wouldn't do any good.) I'm rational enough to  know this is a great thing for him. He has loved Colorado since he first set foot in the state when he was just a teenager. If you love your children you want them to be happy, right? And I am happy for him. Really. But I honestly don't know what I'm going to do that first morning when it finally hits me that he's gone; that I won't be able to give him a hug any time I feel like it; that I'm not going to hear him whistling as he gets ready for work. I also don't know what I'm going to do when hockey season starts and I have to watch the games without him and that sweater.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to survive his move. I just wish I didn't have to.