The Pits of Meaningless Despair

I just sent my manuscript to the proofreader so why do I feel like crying?  What’s wrong with me?

My rosy cheeked boy!

My baby!

I haven’t felt this lost since I left my youngest at college, looking so innocent that I had to be dragged away by my mother and hubby.  Was he really ready for the hard knocks of college life? My baby.  So young – barely eighteen.  He’d never even been to camp!  Six hours from his mommy in a dorm with all those savages!  What if he got sick, who would take care of him???

The funny thing is, after stressing all night, the next morning we couldn’t even find the rascal to say good-bye.  He’d met a girl.

Now my other baby is gone and I can’t stop thinking, she’s not ready for the world!  I should have looked her over just one more time. Just one more time!  Maybe I shouldn’t have removed that scene in draft three.  Maybe the protagonist is too snarky.  Maybe, maybe, maybe…. (Maybes will be the end of me, t’is true.)

On and on I descend into the pits of meaningless despair,* each step down deeper and deeper until finally I am so mired in self-made muck that I’m worthless for anything other than paper-shredding, which is what I did for three hours this morning, my form of self-flagellation. 

Don’t we all wish our babies received this type of reception into the world, singing storks and all, ahhhhh:

*Pits of meaningless despair – how my darling son describes life with his mother.

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