Flash Non-Fiction

sunset

I’m sitting here worrying.
No, that’s not entirely true: I’m sitting here trying NOT to worry.

The worry-meter was way up there, yesterday evening, most of last night. Now I simply don’t have much energy left to worry that much.

My son is at summer camp.
For the first time.

Until now, he’s been once to a sleep-over. Once!
Until now, we’ve spent two nights apart. Two, in almost thirteen years.
They were: his very first night after birth. Since he came into my arms by way of an evening C-section, I spent most of that night recovering and he was in the hospital nursery. And then there was the sleep-over eighteen months ago.

And now camp!
Six days, five nights.
They feel like six months.

Oh, I know, I know. This is codependency at its best.

It’s funny how one gets messed up during childhood and becomes codependent, eager to glue oneself to another person, worrying obsessively about my child, when, in fact, all I learned as a child was that my family didn’t seem to worry too much about me.

All is dysfunctional and at the end, we’ll receive an award for our obsessions. Or for a story about obsessions, or a story about the absence thereof, or….

But non-dysfunctional people (would that be “functional” people?) are now becoming minority and, therefore, one can assume that 70% of the population understand very well where I come from since that many people are supposedly from dysfunctional families, too, and at least mildly codependent.

Friday I get to hug my son again!

It’s funny how a few days of absence put things into a brand new light, how benign our small disputes seem, how love as a whole is so much more important.

Thirty-six hours of raging codependent mother-hen worries left….

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