This week has mainly been about leaving.
For the first time I left the house with two children and returned with none.
It was a very exposed, almost naked feeling (a little less so when I remembered to retrieve my house keys from the pocket of the baby carrier).
Even more emotional than leaving my children, I’m about to drop my sewing shears off to be sharpened, with the prospect of being separated from them for upwards of three weeks.
I have no idea why it feel so wrenching, perhaps because almost everything else I use is one of many (needles, threads, hoops), whereas the scissors are unique.
I’ve also had them much longer than even the Lovely Young Man (and we met 17 years ago on Wednesday) – my fabric scissors since I was a teenager, and my pinking shears were my granny’s.
But in the spirit of the week, I’ll stick emphatic name labels on them, take a deep breath and go.
