Once again Chloe doesn't live here anymore, although this time she's closer than an ocean away. Yesterday we moved her into her dorm, to her room on the fourth floor, exactly eleventy-billion flights of steps up, after walking uphill to get to the first flight of steps. No, no elevator to assist with moving in, but it might be a cure for the freshman 15. I love these dorm rooms and have wanted to live in one ever since I visited a high school friend who lived there. She's on the top floor so they have vaulted ceilings and it looks and feels like living in a treehouse. Her roommate is really nice and they live very close to the new state-of-the-art rec center so Chloe should be in good shape.
On the way home Steve, out of nowhere, says, "I don't have to wear my bathrobe anymore." Well, hon, you might want to wear it in the kitchen in the morning when your sister is looking over to see what's up. Then, while waiting for the ferry, he was joking about me fishing through my purse getting money to buy a can of pop and he told me to hurry up. I told him to keep his pants on. "When we get home I won't have to." Apparently we're taking different paths to processing our emotions related to our last kid leaving home and it being just the two of us from now on.
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