More than enough

When I step outside in the more subdued moments of the early morning, or just as the sky darkens in the evening, I just stop and breathe. The spring air is full of rain, pine, and cherry blossoms. It smells like heaven.

Today is my husband’s birthday. The kids and I drove up to West Seattle to meet him after work. We went out for dinner and desert, and I hope he felt as loved and appreciated as he is. Both Suzannah and Isaac remembered to tell him Happy Birthday! before school this morning, and this afternoon they made him homemade birthday cards, which they were terribly excited to give him. We hadn’t even opened our menus at dinner before they were insisting that he open them. (And when we arrived back at home, Isaac said, “Daddy, I’ll show you where we kept your present!” So much for my standard hiding place.)

Suzannah’s spring concert was last night. I love so many things about this age, not the least of which is that seven-year-olds are still so thrilled to look out at an audience and see their people watching them. Suzannah filed in, her new dress swinging around her knees. She found her spot on the riser and then, like all the other second-graders, scanned the room. When her eyes lit upon her dad, her brother, her auntie and uncle, and me--all waving and grinning--she broke into a grin of her own and waved back.

The kids gave an enthusiastic performance and I smiled so hard it hurt. Actually, watching my little girl singing up there made me tear up a bit for about half of the first song. She’s shy at first, always--trying to suppress her smile while she sings. But then she’s totally into it, moving her body, singing her heart out. So much joyful noise. And afterwards there are hugs all around, hugs for her teacher, pictures with her best friends, and a trip to Dairy Queen.

Isaac promised earnestly that he would be a good listener, and, indeed, he was. Afterwards, in the car, he turned to his sister and said, quite earnestly, “Zannah, I liked your singin'.” And she replied, “Thank you, Isaac!”

They burst my heart in so many little ways every day. It is almost too much to bear.

Spring Break began for Suzannah and me this afternoon. We're staying home this year. I am a bit wistful, remembering last April's trip to Montana, but I am also looking forward to some agenda-free days right here. Suzannah is excited for “Girl Days” and I intend to plan some outings for the two of us. Tacoma one day, Seattle another. A couple of bookstores. The library. I love my children together but I also cherish the time I spend with each of them alone, and it's important to me that I make time for that. Earlier this week I took Isaac out for a little “date” at Starbucks, just the two of us, and watching him swing his feet above the floor while he sucked down his milk and inhaled his petite vanilla bean scone (so different than the way Suzannah eats hers, by picking off the frosting and nibbling it slowly), I wished so hard that I could slow time enough to cup that moment in my hands and keep it a little longer.

After Isaac was born and I found myself at home with a preschooler and a newborn, I learned immediately that the key to my sanity was getting out with my children, breathing fresh air, walking. We were blessed with sunny January days that year, and we walked to the park nearly every day. Suzannah was younger than Isaac is now—is that possible? She played on the playground, turned the jungle gym into a ship. I climbed up after her, the baby tucked against my chest in a wrap, and we steered that ship together before walking back down the street, towards Starbucks. We each nibbled our little vanilla scones. She sipped her milk, and I sipped my hot chocolate. By the time Isaac woke to fuss it was time to wander home again, where I would nurse him on the couch before making lunch for Suzannah. In my memory, these moments still seem so close—but then I might flip through three-year-old photographs and see my daughter's little face, still rounded from babyhood, and superimposed over the image of her now, I'm suddenly disoriented. Not sad, not really, because the life we're living right now is too sweet for that, but there is a bittersweetness and the merest twinge of desperation. To notice it all, to hold it, to be grateful.

So we don't have big plans for break. That's okay. I am going to read novels that I want to read, which is something I do all the time—motherhood especially has taught me to read and write in the spaces I never noticed before, the little cracks of time in my day that I must have wasted before—but I want to curl up in the afternoons while the kids play and read for an hour without thinking about making sure lunches are packed and my papers are graded and lessons are planned and permission slips are filled out. I want to tuck the kids into bed and read until I can't stay awake any longer.

I want to fall asleep without setting an alarm because I don't need to be up and showered before the kids wake up.

I'm starting a new writing class at the end of the week--one that will last for the next few months--and it has nothing at all to do with my job.

I am going to go for solitary runs in the cool evening air, even if it is raining, because I love the cherry blossoms that fall over the sidewalks like I love the falling leaves in autumn.

I am going to take a complete break from Facebook, because while I have fun posting there, it is also noise that I don’t need this week.

I am going to be content, grateful, and present in this simple, beautiful life. If that’s what this break gives me, even without an “escape” to a hotel (because I do love those!) or a trip to my beloved hometown, then that is more than enough.