Shiny Shoes and Fruit Loops

This morning, brighter and earlier than we've been accustomed, we all rolled out of bed for the first day of school.
I should've known Mark was up to something when he was missing from our bed last night. He had been busy, setting the kitchen table, tablecloth and all, with paper plate love notes, contraband sugar cereal, and small tokens of affection. Thank goodness someone always comes through around here.

And then it was go, go, go: uniforms, teeth, hair, new shoes from Gramma, backpacks, lunches, school supplies. But before the inevitable departure and the new year, blessings from their Daddy. Sweet, sweet blessings to encourage, protect and lead the way.
And then tears of separation between the ones leaving and the ones left behind, a picture in front of the school, with a new class, through a closed door. It was harder than I thought looking at my oldest through that small square of glass, dividing us. She was somewhere I couldn't be, where I could no longer help or hear or touch or even fight.

I won't lie and tell you I didn't enjoy the quieter house. There was no fighting over the computer or the TV, no Justin Bieber on repeat, no nagging over beds undone, flowers unwatered, workbooks tossed aside.
But oh how good it felt to get them back, in arm's length, in earshot, in view, back from behind those closed doors. And oh how good it felt, one of those parenting moments that makes all the other less-rewarding moments worth it, when Ada came in, dropped directly to the floor, peeled off those good-for-nothing socks and shoes, and exclaimed: "It feels soooooooo good to be home."