Rest

"I'm freaking out, Mom, I'm freaking out!"

Those were the words coming from the backseat of our minivan the first day that I drove my oldest to school six years ago. Today the words are mine.

I watched my oldest son ride off to middle school today, on his own. He wanted to ride his bike. He wanted to go alone. He's ready.

I'm not.

I wanted to go with him, make sure he got his locker open and walk him to his first class, maybe even take a picture. You don't think that would affect his middle school status, do you?

I'm trying to figure out how close I can get to the school when it's time for him to head home. If I stay a few blocks away I may not totally humiliate him.

I don't know.

To add insult to injury, I also had to drop my baby girl off at all-day kindergarten today. She was ready, too, she was fine. I thought she might be a little sad to see me go, maybe look up at me longingly as I left. Nothing. I held back the tears, told the teacher to have a good day (code for: please take care of my baby) and left Hope coloring the picture of Barney on her desk.

Then I drove off, alone. Came home to a quiet house, only my puppy waiting for me. No one asking for a snack or to watch t.v. or to play with me. I can clean the house without anyone following behind me to mess it up again, until 2:45.

I feel this odd sense of joyous freedom tinged with crushing anxiety. Twelve years now. Twelve years of raising kids, being a stay at home mom, maybe working part-time, but mostly with my kids all day, every day, for twelve years.

I feel like I've earned this. Earned a little break. But I miss them. It is excruciating having to wait six hours to hear how their days went - if Joshua scraped his knee on the playground, how Gabe likes his first male teacher, if Lukas was shoved into his locker (he checked to see if he would fit when we visited the school - he does, just barely), and if Hope likes school.

And so, when the anxiety starts ramping up and I feel like I might not be able to take it anymore, I get on my knees and give them back to the One who never leaves them, always knows how they are, and somehow loves them infinitely more than me.

And He says to me, "Rest."

"Rest in me. Trust in me. I will care for them when you cannot. I want you to rest."

Okay, I'll try. I'm still eager to hear their stories when they get home, but for now I'm going to drink my chai and rest.