C L I C K
You see, next Monday, my three children will return to their school building for the first time since last March.
My 5 year old will go to her first day of in-person kindergarten. Ever.
In her lifetime on this Earth.
My youngest child is now in elementary school.
The Pandemic first cursed and then blessed me as mother with an encore of 3 young children at home. This stage *should* have wrapped up last July when they all went to school together for the first time. But instead, it’s wrapping up now.
I’m no longer a parent of “young children.” I no longer find myself trudging up the impossible hill of a parking lot at Trader Joe’s. The cart piled high with groceries, a babe in the seat leaning forward to grab my hair, a toddler beside me with her little hand upon the cart, and a pre-schooler owning his oldest child status by walking inches away from my other side. All three children bursting with aliveness, joy and insatiable exploration of the world.
Under my watch.
The curtain is falling on that Act.
I don’t need someone to convince me that my hands are still full and that the work of parenting isn’t going anywhere and that in fact it will get more beautiful / harder than it ever was.
Others tell me such things and I can for sure observe them. But that’s not where I am yet.
I’m walking through the door of tomorrow.
I’m scared. We’ve been enmeshed with each over for 11 months. Will Nora be okay going from 100% home to 7 hours a day 5 days a week away from us? This fear is a panic bug skittering around in my chest looking for the way out. “Where is the friggin’ exit from this place?” it chitters.
I’m sad. To see them go. To feel them go. To feel this time of messy innocence slip drip through my fingers.
I’m tired. My heroic mind skip hops after a flavor of the day attraction distraction. It’s landed on perfecting my business model. “MUST DO IT ALL! ASAP!” orders the little General waving the baton in my head. He’s saving me from my own (surely) sorry demise.
But the veil he’s dropped is flimsy. It’s billowing in the wind and I can see what’s under it.
Now is under it.
This sad. This scared. This tired.
I love these kids and this life. With its indulgences and ignorances. With its infinite joys and infinite sufferings. With its screw ups and prize wins. With its constant learning. I love this life.
Hey… look at that.
I think I found that remote control after all.
Watch this short video for your own 4 minute pause and try my words in your very own way.
Thanks for being here. It brings me joy and wonder to feel you with me.
Take good care,