We enjoyed our days in Paris with Aidan and Joseph, and I think they did too—in spite of what the photo on the bench seems to suggest. We poked into some less-visited galleries at the Louvre, savored ice cream from Berthillon (supposed to be the best ice cream in Paris, though we weren't that impressed), and generally enjoyed the ambiance.
But they had planned a brief trip to London too. The night before they left, I got up in the middle of the night to retrieve a note that I had left for them on the kitchen table. They were leaving early in the morning, and I had wanted to give Aidan one more bit of advice. But suddenly it occurred to me that I was doing to Aidan what my mother used to do to me. Even when I was an adult, when we went out, she'd ask, "Don't you need your sweater?" It irritated me at the time. But that night I finally understood why she did that.
We love our children and grandchildren, and we want so much to protect them. Yes, even when we know they are capable adults. But we have to let them go out into that wide world alone, to encounter the beauty, the terror, the love, and the cruelty that life inflicts, all wrapped up together. We can't protect them any more; we just have to give them hugs and send them on their way. I thought about that when I heard them rise at dawn and leave as silently as they could to catch the metro. The world is theirs now. All we can do is wish them well.
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