The month of May

I love this time of year in the Pacific Northwest. Recently we had a week of weather so lovely I wore skirts and sandals every single day. Cherry blossoms have settled in pink piles along the sidewalks after weeks of landing in my hair as I ran by, shaken from their branches by the slightest breeze. Now the clouds have returned, but the rain is light, soft, warm. I ran through just such a drizzle this morning, and the smell of my neighborhood on this spring Saturday morning filled me right up with gratitude.

May in the Pacific Northwest arrives just in time to keep me from running screaming into the woods, because while it is the beginning of the loveliest time of year, it aligns perfectly with the worst time to be a teacher. Everyone is done in May, just so done. This year, though, I’m so aware of how deeply unhappy I was at school last year, and so deeply aware of the difference. Even on a less than stellar day. When I look back on the last seven or eight months I’m not sure I can think of the last year I’ve just loved my job and loved my kids and felt really, really good about it all the way I have this year. My school has seen a lot of changes in the last four or five years. So have I, really. I seriously considered taking an entirely different direction with me life after Isaac was born, for a lot of reasons, but right now I feel like I’m doing exactly what I’m called to do. That isn’t to say it’s perfect, because nothing ever is, and when I’m stressed out I’m still prone to bursting into Becca’s room during her planning period and shouting, “Everything is terrible,” but now when I do that I’m usually referring to something that can be fixed with a little perspective, a little breathing space, a few items crossed of a to-do list, and a small bite of chocolate.

So things are really pretty good right now. I had somewhat of a frenzied, disappointing week, to be honest -- I felt overwhelmed and a little sad and tired -- but now, on Saturday night, cuddled up with my husband and my pug, sipping a drink and watching a movie, it’s easy to let go of specifics, to stop having hypothetical arguments in my head with people who don’t exactly know they’re participants, and to try to extend a little grace to people who’ve managed to ruffle my feathers. (Which, as we all know, is so hard to do.)

Ten days from now my little girl turns seven years old. All of her grandparents will be here to celebrate. I watched her run and climb and tumble at her gymnastics class today and wondered how in the world we made it to this point so quickly. Last night we all drove home from West Seattle, and Suzannah and Isaac played the “Smell my feet” game the entire way. I kind of hate the “Smell my feet” game, especially in the car, especially at night when we are all tired, and because also ew. But at the same time, it sent me spinning into this weird space -- I have spent so many moments kissing my children’s feet when they were babies, even toddlers. I have loved those little feet, and even now there is something so heartbreakingly sweet about, say, Isaac’s feet kicking above the floor when he sits in a chair. And I know there will be a time, not long from now, when I will remember my children screaming joyfully about their own stinky feet in the back seat and waving those feet all over the car, sticking them in each other’s faces, in our faces. Probably I will roll my eyes at the memory, a bit. I know I will think of it fondly, as we always do in hindsight. And maybe that’s why I write it all down now -- to try to keep and hold each moment, the hilarious, the absurd, the wretched, the sweet -- because I’m all too aware of how quickly it passes. The moments aren’t all sweet; please don’t remind me to enjoy all of them. But they’re all part of our story, and I do love our story.