Five more minutes…

My kids are not playground-age anymore, but when they were, it was a sacred commitment to give them a warning.  You know, “Five more minutes!”  This is especially important for kids with “transition issues.”

Kids with transition issues grow up to be adults with transition issues.  Lthike me, I’m sheepish to say.  I wanted five more minutes.  You know, like when you don’t want someone to go back to their place after a wonderful time together, or your father is dying, and you think of all the ways you can tell him you love him, so he can take them with him to wherever dying people go next, and be comforted that his daughter didn’t despise him until the day he died.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Your husband of 23 years comes home and says, “We need to talk.”  Your stomach drops, and your heart pounds in your ears, and you feel light headed before it hits you, before he can say it, but you know deeply in that self-destructing body of yours, and you ask, “Is it Jane?”

And he says yes.

And you stumble, dazed, off the playground, with a concussion from the monkey bars.

The next six months are going to suck.  And you had no five minute warning.

Moving on.


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