Still feels so incredibly strange, but we moved Juan into his first apartment today. We filled my car with the small stuff, the trailer with the big stuff, and his work truck with the last few things like his laundry basket and bedding.
I will admit, we were quite surprised to see how much he was NOT packed or ready, despite how much he said he was and how much he insisted it wouldn't take long at all to move his stuff. I think it took more work to empty his small, unpacked bedroom than it did to get it all up the three flights of stairs (which I sadly walked up about three times before I decided to stay at the top and put away a few things in his kitchen while Juan and David finished bringing it all up).
Part of me wanted to be that mom that went to the store and brought him back a basket of cleaning supplies, toiletries, and lunch. But at the same time, he made it pretty clear that he wants to do this all on his own. He didn't even want me anywhere near his kitchen because he had his own visions of how he wanted it organized. I get it. I'm the same way and hate having someone around when I'm trying to figure things out. I left and said I'll come back whenever he's set up and invites me back. When we left he was still in the middle of assembling the night stands he picked out at IKEA and said he'd head to the store soon after to get a few more essential things, along with the box spring he still needed. I think he was really looking forward to spending the day getting himself settled and somewhat organized.
It was totally time for this step--for all of us. But I wonder when it will hit me that he won't be walking through the front door in the evenings saying, "I'm home" before disappearing into his room until dinner.
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