Micah turned eight yesterday. Over the weekend, we took a few of his buddies bowling and then to Bullwinkle’s Pizza to celebrate. I realized that it was my eighth birthday that I remember so well, with a party at Peter Piper Pizza and gifts of My Little Ponies. I wonder if he’ll remember this one in the same light. That’s a TON of pressure, if I think about it that way, but I won’t. I hope I’m getting this thing right. I think he still likes me, so that’s a good sign.
This is how I will always remember Micah, no matter how many teeth he looses or inches taller he grows. About 2 or 3, with his bright blond hair and his playful, curious nature. I’m the luckiest mama in the world.
Today is the last day of school. In just a few hours, I will be the mom of a fifth and a third grader–and a kindergartner! I remember those days when I thought the baby and toddler years would last forever. My how we have grown. It’s no secret that I am overly sentimental, and I wonder sometimes if that means that I dwell too much in the past. But I’m not sure if that’s true. The older my kids get, the more I love relishing in the now with them, and looking forward to what’s next.
Now that we have had a wonderful stretch of blue skies, I feel my winter skin breaking off. My flowers are planted, the yard is exploding in green. Everything is so fresh and alive. I was driving home from downtown this week, with the windows all rolled down, my hand rested on the door. I felt the warm wind rush over me and the physical sensation was intoxicating. I now walk around in a haze, easily distracted by the growth of the grass or the hummingbird buzz I can feel on the back of my neck. Stopped in my tracks by the mingling smell of the skunk cabbage and the cottonwoods, instantly drunk after a deep breath. Reconnection with parts of me that I lost for a bit. Love sick, I think maybe, with spring.
We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity – in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern. -Anne Morrow Lindbergh