I miss my adult children. There's just no way around it, I wish I had them at the dinner table once a month, once a week, or better yet, every night, just to listen to what they did that day, what they think about everything.
The ultimate irony of parenting is that it seems interminable when you're going through it day-to-day, and it passes in what seems like a millisecond when viewed retrospectively. I berate myself for all the things I did wrong, and can't remember a single thing I did right, yet they turned out to be interesting and wonderful people. How did that happen?
I wanted them to grow into being smart and curious, caring and compassionate, responsible and independent. They did, and then they left, just as things were beginning to get interesting. I think it's terribly unfair.
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