I’ve been feeling somewhat guilty all week because I’ve been reading Facebook posts of friends pining for the children away at summer camp and well…. I haven’t felt the same sense of desolation and longing.
A friend walked up to me late in the week and asked, “So, how are you holding up?” I quickly scanned the dessicated corn husk that used to be my brain and tried to think of some big event I’d forgotten.  I was seconds away from launching into my soliloquy about the Sopranos and the golden age of television, when the friend said:
“You know, how are you holding up without Bennett?”

Oh, that.
Efram left today, a full week after Bennett and yes, the house is quiet and boy-less. And yes, we miss them. But damn it, I don’t think the missing quite rises to the level of a sad Facebook post.
And I feel guilty about it. I feel guilty about lots of things.
First, Efram got a buzz cut this week to prepare him for his two weeks away. “You know,” said another mum. “This way you don’t have to worry about brushing it.” Efram shot me a look. I don’t think I’ve ever brushed his hair, and I know he certainly hasn’t. Does one need to brush a boy’s hair? Why has nobody told me that? It’s too damn late now. Even though I physically throw him in the shower on an (almost) daily basis, Efram is on the weekly shampoo program. His head smells like the bunny cage.
Then, someone asked me if I packed a reading light for Bennett at camp. Come again? Last time I checked, a reading light implies reading. I spent most of my childhood with my face in a book, and I’m almost certain I didn’t read much at camp (with the exception of Judy Blume’s Forever, see page 110). I packed some books of fun sports facts and an extra flashlight. Moby Dick will have to wait.
To recap: I don’t miss  my kids enough, I’ve never brushed either of the boys’ hair, and I’ve sent them both to camp with all the accoutrements to play a long round of candy poker, but there’s nary a novel in sight. (Ok, Efram did pack half the library in one of his bags, but that had nothing to do with me and I’ll eat my shoe if he reads a single book.)
And I really do miss Tony Soprano.
Now that we only have the 3 girls at home, M and I are taking off alone for a couple of days (I do realize that parenting three girls six and under who generally speak in whine, may not seem like a freeing experience, but believe me when I say that everything is relative).
I pulled out this adorable little cross-body purse I’ve been saving for an occasion when I don’t have to carry my entire life around with me. I took out my shopping bags (can’t leave home without those unless you want to pay for paper bags here in Seattle), pacifiers, Polly Pockets, notebooks, barrettes, and other random detritus.
But I couldn’t squeeze this in:

M pointed out that ladies who carry cute little cross body satchels probably don’t need to carry round several pounds of dried fruit with them at all times. Oh, really? I can’t imagine that among all those satchel-toting women there isn’t one of them who can’t get through a day without a healthy dose of roughage.
If you see someone carrying an adorable purse that won’t quite close because three pounds of dried apricots are forcing their way out, please wave and say hi.
It’s probably me.