I think it started a few weeks ago, possibly even a few months ago. At first, I barely noticed and then I had to make an effort not to notice. 

Then came the time last weekend when my eleven year old - my baby - looked up at me and informed me that "Mom, weekends are meant to hang out with your friends. Not with your family."  

Ah. I did not know this. 

This was on the heels of my daughter getting her driver's license and announcing that her main requirement for college was that it be "really far away." 

Ouch. 

Now, don't let me give you the wrong picture: my kids like me. Really, they do. We talk, we play, we are pretty darn close, all of us.  

And they are growing up. 

And they apparently have inherited a really strong independent streak. 

And I am not ready. 

So, for a while, I have been feeling this low grade sense of ... something. I have not wanted to really spend much time getting to know this "something" and instead have let it move in, make itself comfortable inside of me. 

Its humming was never far from the surface, though, and I could feel myself becoming  slowly ungrounded, as if my roots were being quietly pried apart. I felt a little less energetic, a little more irritable and much less flexible. In retrospect, I know that I was showing all the signs of someone who "has not had a talk with herself." 

I guess it wasn't time. 

Until last night. 

Last night, my dog Roxy and I went on a walk (she still would much rather go on a walk with me than talk on the phone or go to a dance). As we sometimes do, we had invited a  neighborhood dog to come along with us and now we were bringing him home.

Not seeing anyone in the yard, I walked towards the house, knocked on the wide open door and  called in. Not getting an answer, I peeked in.

All of a sudden, there it was:

The kid-sized easel and the row of freshly finger painted art. The mountains of little cars laying in the middle of the rug. The tiny shoes by the door. The sweet mess. And the smell. The smell of a house with little kids. A smell which I did not even know existed until that moment. Now I know: it does. And damn, I miss it. 

We returned the dog and as we made our way home, I knew that there was no other choice but for me to have that talk with myself. 

The sun was setting and it seemed to invite me so very gently to go ahead. To go ahead and extend to myself the very invitation which I extend to my clients so often:

"It sounds a little bit bad. Tell me about it..."

And so I did. I told the sunset about my sadness, about my fears too. About my sense of loss, of it all having gone so fast, of the mistakes I made, of the things I did not get to do. And also of my embarrassment at feeling so darn sad and at not feeling only joy for the fact that my beautiful kids were growing their wings so well. Yes, embarrassment.

And that is the embarrassment that had prevented me from having that talk. The little voice  that comes in and brushes over our feelings and says "Oh come, on. It's not that bad." 

It's true. It's not that bad. 

But it is a little bit bad. 

And until I am okay with this "little bit bad", I am just not going to be ready to truly embrace what's next. 

So, if like me, you feel the quiet buzz of something not fully addressed; if like me you have told yourself several times that "it's not that bad", I invite you to gently have that talk with yourself. Listen to your words and nod and agree: "yes, it's a little bit bad, I can see that. Tell me a little more." 

And next thing you know, you will feel so much better.

Who knows ... you might even start to feel "a little bit good."