The Trash Man Cometh

I sit here surveying a living room full of my daughters' junk. They've barfed it up out of the bowels of their bedroom like a giant hurling up a rotten cow. It's been a difficult time for me--saying good-bye to a daughter who has already brushed the dirt off her feet on this old, used up homestead.

I feel like she said good-bye to needing a mother a long time ago. I'm merely one of the trash bags in the Mountain 'O Crud. I know it's a fact of life. Kids have to separate from their parents to grow up. But do they have to do it so very thoroughly? And with such finality? Isn't there still room for a mother who has actually lived what they read on google or Pinterest? Will there ever come a time when my nine years of college will qualify me to say anything valid? Will she ever need me again like an old, worn, but still-serviceable softy blanket? What am I, stacked up against all the wisdom of the ages confined in a little electrified silver box?

Because right now I feel like the Trash man cometh. She'll just find someone else more shiny and fashionable and less annoying and embarrassing to replace me with. Oh wait. She already has.