My mom left Thursday afternoon, in a rush.

All of a sudden she decided she needed to get home, to attend to her pressing business there. It was a wise decision, but it was a lot like pulling off a bandage all at once.

We said our final goodbyes in my driveway, raindrops falling on our faces, mingling with reluctant tears. Neither of us wanted her to go, but we both knew it had to be.

I pulled myself together and waved to her, a smile on my face, as her car pulled away for the long drive back to New York. In the house, I allowed myself to break down a little, hiding in Mr. C’s armpit so The Poo wouldn’t see me upset.

The afternoon was gloomy, but just about the time we decided to go out for dinner with some friends, the sun broke through the heavy Midwestern clouds.

Dinner was the perfect antidote to my mood. For the first time in many months I could order whatever I wanted from the menu, without fretting about carbs or glycemic indexes or heading to the bathroom for a shot of fast-acting insulin in my thigh.

I even ordered dessert.

Thursday was move-in day for freshman at the Huge Midwestern University here, and the eatery was crowded, buzzing with laughter and the electric potential of first-year undergraduates. Their parents eyed them affectionately, warily, and I imagined sending my own babies out into the world with only the slightest tether keeping them bound to me.

The Poo was in fine form, really herself for the first time since her brother made his appearance just over two weeks ago. She was perfectly behaved, a model for every child dining out. She colored, flirted charmingly with the server, and even wrote her own name for the very first time, in blue crayon.

“You make the best grilled cheese!” she called out to our waiter, after the two of them exchanged introductions.

So taken with her was our waiter that he brought her a free dish of ice cream with a candle in it.

“Emmie,” he said, “I forgot your birthday this year. So I brought you a candle tonight!”

“Oooooh,” she exclaimed, hands clasped angelically beneath her chin.

As he brought us the bill, he asked The Poo if she was five years old.

“No,” she replied modestly, “I am three.”

He looked at me in amazement and told me she had “incredible verbalization.” When he returned to pick up our receipts, he brought her a tiger lily from the floral arrangement on the bar.

Shaggy slept through the entire event, waking up briefly in the car. He began to scream, but even he stopped his fussing after just a few minutes, calming himself even though I managed to leave his pacifier at home.

We managed bedtime in tandem, handing off the children like experts. My incision ached but didn’t burn, I was tired but not exhausted.

Mr. C and I sat side-by-side on the couch in companionable silence, watching TV and snacking on the fresh banana bread my mom made us before she left.

Friday morning found my husband in his sport coat, off to work, and my children in their PJs, one napping and one eating her waffles.

I know the road ahead of me will have it’s bumps, but right now, it feels as smooth as silk.