okaerinasai / itterasshai

The boy has returned. A full college-year older. The dog was ecstatic ... for about two minutes. Then, he plopped down on the living room rug, chin on the floor, eyes looking upward like a God-fearing apostle in a Renaissance painting, imploring, where art my dog treats? and looking very bored. The boy had a similar rush of excitement when he came home that seemed to wear off rather quickly and was replaced by happy boredom. He spent most of his days sitting in front of a screen of some sort, which seems like it would be boring, but he seemed to be both excited and happy, content to interact with whomever was pinging him while he made music or played that game where a small circle eats smaller circles (which he explained to me in great detail). In spite of this default setting for indoor activities, both the boy and the dog seemed happiest when outside of the house, running, at least for a little while, which made my daily to-do list a bit shorter: When you come downstairs, could you walk the dog, please?

After two weeks of allowing our son to decompress, we went to a picnic where he was asked how long he'd been home. His father replied, "Hasn't it been about a week?" while our son answered, "Feels like it's been about a month."
 

Well, that pretty much sums it up. It's rather unfair that time speeds up when you are older, and have less of it, while those who are still young feel like time is just dragging on and on and on, with WiFi and everything just so slooooowwwwwww. As much as I'd like to tell my son -- Hey! Slow is good! Appreciate your youthful young years, you young whippersnapper! -- I'm sure it won't mean a lot to him right now. (Okay, okay, I probably will tell him, anyways, since I'm prone to talking whether or not anybody is listening.)

Then, just like that -- after two blissful weeks at home, where snack foods are plentiful and laundry facilities are free, he is off to his next adventure. We dropped him off at the airport this morning for Japan, confident that he'll be fine, but worrying about him, anyway. We said our good-byes and waited outside the ropes, watching him go through the security checkpoint, struggling to see him though the glare-streaked glass wall. He glanced back at us with an incredulous little smile that said, why are you still here you know i will be fine you should just go home dad is coughing please go home, but he still indulged us with a final wave good-bye as he emerged on the other side of the scanning machine and left the security area. Even though he'll be home next month, I still found myself tearing up as my husband gave me a hug and our son disappeared from view. I suppose all the comings and goings will get to be the new normal soon. But I'm not quite there yet.