This past weekend, one of our 22 1/2 year old twin sons left home to begin his independent life in Montreal. And with his departure, the first rearrangement of our family: we're no longer under the same roof.
Some of you know the bittersweet moment.
He spent the last three days in a whirlwind of packing punctuated by parties. Then the ride's here, a quick round of hugs, and off.
The boy-to-man cave of his room is as layered as an archaeological dig: snowboard stickers on the desk, wallpaper sprayed with coke stains from a rambunctious sleepover. Little-kid papier-maché animals perched aside dusty karate belts.
We'll redecorate; soon it won't look like a kid's room. But in the present echoey emptiness, I recalled the murmur of bedtime stories, "bonne nuit, bonne nuit and a bumble bee" and a last kiss as the light was turned off. Thumps of bed forts, blare of Green Day, chirp of his phone. See his four
year old feet sticking out from his duvet, nails painted black thanks to an indulgent sitter.
I miss him–though don't want him to miss us– and cope by eating carrot cake in the middle of the day. I love that he took all his books and bookshelves with him.
Off he goes into the world, his world, as suffused with excitement as the photo I have of his first solo trip up the stairs, at just over one year. Two days ago he and his boxes went down those stairs, with the same enthusiasm.
The first thing he and his mates did in his new town is treat themselves to a late night dinner at Au Pied de Cochon, "PDC" to them.
Bonne chance, Etienne!