My house is so quiet. Not silent. I can hear the gurgle of the fish tank, the click of my son's laptop keyboard, the dogs sighing as they snooze next to me on the couch. Just quiet. No daughter asking for a snack, demanding my attention, getting on her brother. Every so often, letting me love on her.
She got on the plane this morning and later texted me, as required by the teacher, that she was on the shuttle bus to Space Camp. (I had already checked the airport's website and knew that the plane had landed -- bless technology!) It was so much fun this morning watching her be as excited as all the other 11- and 12-year-olds gathered at the airport. She latched onto another girl who had never flown before, either, and I watched them go through security and come out successfully on the other side. Then they walked out of sight. Sigh.
I got a couple of projects started this afternoon, and I hope to do a lot more this week. I can't imagine what it's going to be like not to have to drop everything at 2:00 to get the house ready before I have to leave at 2:15 to get her from the hub bus stop and then monitor constantly until bedtime. (Really, by the time noon rolls around, the day seems pretty much over.) Even now, I have things sitting out that I would never leave out if she were home, and it feels so odd.
But I'm sitting here in my house with two people who don't talk, who appear impatient when I talk, who want nothing to do with me, not because they don't love me -- they do -- but because they aren't wired to be social. Or sociable. Do I miss my daughter only because, though usually negatively, she interacts with me? In the quiet of my house, I hope not.