and so.

A few years later, a million changes later . . .

Our oldest is now in college. He packs his bags every fall and travels too many states away, where he sleeps in a tiny and moderately grungy room, eats three well-balanced meals a day, does his own laundry, and generally manages just fine without me, thankyouverymuch.

And because I'm me, I worry pretty much the whole time. When he tells me he's going to Alcatraz to watch a performance of Hamlet, I check the clock all night long and try to estimate where he is at what point in time, and I don't breathe easily, not truly, until I'm certain he's back in that tiny and moderately grungy room. When he travels with the archery team to Southern California, I'm grateful that he doesn't mention it to me until it's already over, so I don't spend the whole weekend holding my breath. And the weird thing is I want him to have fun. I want college to be an amazing and wonderful time of his life. But more than that? I want him safe. Period.

And the youngest. The youngest begins eighth grade this coming fall. I do not know how this happened. He should still be spinning in circles on the swing in our old yard, his mouth a perfect O of pure delight. In the past couple of years, he's developed a strong interest in guitar and art, for which I am grateful. I love nothing more than listening to him play guitar with his brother when he's home on break -- the two of them playing old blues tunes and laughing. He's faced and continues to face more challenges than anyone his age should have to endure, but in my heart I believe he'll be okay. Because I have to.

I am older, obviously. Creakier. Trying to push myself back into writing after a three-year-long dry spell and feeling as if the rust will never flake off. But pressing forward. Most days.

And I have a new favorite thing. A space. A tiny writing studio with incredible lighting, a gorgeous stone wall, a cushy chair, funky rug, and no Internet distractions. And it's in my favorite spot in all of Helena: Reeder's Alley. I'm hoping it works out, trying to trust in the process, and see what shakes out. The linky: Mad Muse Writing Studio