If This is a Mid-Life Crisis, Does That Mean I'll Die at 80?

On Tuesday, my oldest daughter turned 19. Today, my baby turns 11. Next week, my oldest turns 21.

Wow.

So, I know that everyone says this, but it all really just seems like yesterday. T-ball, Tiger Scouts, Missionettes, cupcakes to school, grade school music programs, valentines. Yeah, I still get to live it a little with my youngest - but, alas, not for much longer. He's going to be in the 5th grade this fall. A pre-teen. He's starting to pit out and stink when he sweats...the beginning of the end.

And what does that make me, exactly? Mom - not really needed so much anymore. Wife - not hardly. Star employee - well, I gotta say it, work is boring to me now. I haven't learned anything new in a long time, and that's the kiss of death for someone like me, with the attention span of a 4-month old Labrador retriever.

When I started this Project, I told myself that I am, in fact, a WRITER. Above and beyond all else, I write. I am a writer who happens to have a day job. I am a writer who is barreling toward Empty Nest Syndrome. I am a writer with a child in an Army uniform in Iraq. I am a writer with a daughter who's about to fly off to Denver for college. I am a writer who could probably use some Paxil.

Thank God for The Project. Have I said that lately? And thank God for you, dearest reader, and your kind words over the past several months.

Peace out.