Once upon a time, a young man and woman went to bed tired but content after a long, full day raising their four happy and busy little children. The next morning they woke up, not so young anymore and the parents of four happy and busy young adults.
It seems like our children grew up overnight, and while the story of my life and my husband's life are past the middle chapters of our life books, the stories of our kid's lives are still in their opening chapters.
I wish I could write some of the chapters of their story because then I could ensure a happy ending for each of them. But I can't, and to a large extent they can't write their life stories either. They will make choices and decisions that will fill some of their pages, but twists and turns will occur that they could never imagine.
I want to smooth out the bumps in the road, erase the hard parts and delete the sorrow. I want to kiss their boo-boos and make it all better like I did when they were toddlers. I want to ensure they have a happily ever after. But would they become the strong, independent adults they could be if I kept trying to rescue them?
Their stories are still mysteries, as is the rest of mine. We'll all just have to keep reading to see how they turn out.