I have become that Jewish/Italian mother I always despised

When my husband and I were first dating, we used to go up to my cottage several weekends during the summer. Our summer home was located in one of the most beautiful places in Canada, the Muskokas. Every Friday night when we would leave, his mother would cry litres of tears because we were driving 1 1/2 hours north! I would complain the whole way up, "Why does your mother have to go on and on and on with the tears everytime we go up north?" and "Why does she make us feel so guilty for leaving?"

We used to laugh about this to friends and relatives. Apparently, it was the same with most of the mothers when the kids left for vacation or school. Tears, guilt, the whole shootin' match.

Fast forward to this morning at 5:15 am. Sunrise is still another half hour away. A mother is standing on her porch in pink cotton pajamas, waving and crying litres as she says good-bye to DN2 safely ensconced in the back of her grandfather's van. She is on her way here and will help out here while her grandfather does a trade show for his Toy Store. She will be gone for 8 days, 14 hours and haven't yet calculated the seconds.

If you would now excuse me, I must go floss the feathers out of my teeth.