Last year at this time I was extremely depressed. This year, I'm only marginally better. I don't want to go on and on, but it's about my daughter. Last year, she started college and I started bellyaching.
Last year, she was nervous. This year, she's excited.
Last year, I was suicidal. This year, I’m just homicidal: there are boyfriend issues — I won't go on.
Last year, she seemed anxious about leaving the nest. This year, she seems to be asking, "What nest"?
Last year, I thought I was losing her. This year, I'm convinced that I have.
Last year, she wondered if she could handle the workload. This year, she wants more of a workload.
Last year, she seemed like my little girl, too little to be facing the cold, cruel world. This year, I seem like the one unable to face the cold, cruel world.
Friends and family say I should be proud. And I am. I should be proud that she's spreading her wings and I should stop spreading tears.
They're right. She's right. But she’s not "their" girl and she's not "this" parent.
So allow this parent his annual lament. I’m proud of a daughter enjoying life independent of dad, but depressed precisely because she is.
Then again, parents weekend is just 54 days, 2 hours and 57 minutes... from now.
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