Senioritis

It's on thick here on Spinnaker Trail. Frank is a senior this year. I'm freaking out, and so is he. I'm not sure if Doug is or not, probably not, since he is far more practical than Frank and I are.

I read the "Grown and Gone" posts on Facebook, and cry. This morning I read the Real Simple article written by the woman who claims that now she and her husband are free to watch TV while eating dinner and walk around the house naked because both their kids are away at college. And I cried.

I worry about how he's going to afford college, I worry that he'll make the right decision about where to go. I worry about how much I'm going to miss (the hell) out of him when he's however many thousands of miles away. And I cry.

I don't cry in front of him, but I'm sure he knows I do, because as I've written before, he has mom-tears radar. Despite the tears, I'm excited for him. So excited for him. 

We still have his senior year to get through . . . all of us. Senior photos are due in October. I'm sure there are countless "senior things" that we'll soon have to pony up $$ for. Given all of this, I know we're putting the cart before the horse. We're so focused on what he'll be doing next year, we're fast-forwarding too fast.

A few weeks ago Frank told me about talking to his counselor. "What are you worried about?" the counselor asked. 

"About moving away and going to college," he answered.

"When will that happen?"

"A year and a half from now." 

Counselor eye-roll.

I'm not sure what Frank's answer was exactly, but sometime in the not-so-near future, leading the counselor to let him know silently but loud-and-clear, that he was worrying needlessly. Or much too soon.

I suppose the same is true of me. I'm so afraid to face the sadness that I'm worrying about it, which makes me sad. Ridiculous. However, it is sometimes impossible for the head to overrule the heart. The heart feels what it feels, no matter how ridiculous the head knows it is. 

PS - really? http://grownandflown.com/last-call-list-for-senior-year/