In roughly twenty days, my oldest is moving out.
As in leaving my house, jumping on an airplane and moving to another country for a year of school.
I'm blaming my husband for this.
Yes, I know I agreed and actually was the one to research this program. I might even have helped her apply and celebrated her acceptance, but that's not the point.
I mean, I didn't expect her to really go.
My husband was supposed to say, no. That's his job, right? He was the one I was counting on to stop the fun.
Except he didn't.
And now, she's leaving and I am seriously freaking out, while pretending to be cool.
Yes, my daughter is ready. Yes, she's going to have the time of her life. Yes, it's wonderful.
Except it's not.
My baby girl, my first born is LEAVING me.
Did I mention I'm freaking out inside?
My way to deal with my inner turmoil is to organize her. I'm helping her pack, I’m making lists, I’m buying things, and I’m cleaning and organizing her room.
I am also driving her crazy.
If it was up to my daughter she would grab an extra pair of jeans, a few empty sketch books, her drawing pencils, her plane ticket and be out the door.
I, on the other hand, have decided that she needs at least three pairs of boots and seven different jackets. I also like the idea of her taking clean underwear along.
It's going to be a long twenty days, but it's also going to go by far too quickly.
Really, really, REALLY big sigh.