Dear Jack,

You're 50 months now. I have let go of the feeling that I need to post on the 10th. It's part laziness, part fatigue, and part I don't feel like I can put words on paper (or pixels on screen) when my brain is fried. But I'm here today and I'm writing and that is good enough.

Guess what? It finally stopped raining for a bit and I fell headlong in love with this new homeplace. All of my insecurities and frustrations had been compounded by being cooped up inside while it poured for a fortnight or two. The sun broke through, and now, NOW I remember why I wanted to live here in the first place. We've taken long and short walks in the field across the street, swum and splashed for hours in the pool, eaten fresh vegetables by the bushel from the garden, and met new friends. It's not perfect, of course, but I see us all really growing into this place and I picture a slightly older me being relieved that ours is the house on the corner where the kids hang out.

You still struggle to be alone in any room in the new house. There have been a few breakthroughs, and I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge them. You'll go the bathroom solo now, reminding me first to "keep your ears open, Mommy, in case I need you." Bless you, child. You're getting there. On that note, you stopped calling me 'Mim' and I'm a little miffed.

You're not excited about school. It draws up a mighty sea of mommy-guilt and self-doubt for me, of course. My ambivalence about your five-mornings-a-week schedule is mostly a reflection of how difficult/wonderful it is for me to watch you grow up. You don't have to be in school. You don't have to go five days. The truth I know is that even if you don't go to school, you'll still grow up. I can't keep you young and often sweet and mostly portable forever. I'm wise to remember the relief I felt the five mornings of VBS last month when I had a couple of hours to stretch my arms, plant and build things, make lists and check things off, take silent trips to the grocery store, and feel like I have something to contribute besides mothering. It's an important and holy job indeed, but I like to remember some of the other stuff. So, school will be good for both of us, and I predict that you will very much enjoy being one of the older kids in class this year. I'm excited about what you'll learn.

Yesterday you finally found a good climbing tree. You've bemoaned the loss of your tree at our old house (a dogwood that you were swiftly outgrowing, by the way). We have a lot of mature hardwood trees with branches way, way up. I told you to wait and keep looking. Your dad and I were busy picking figs on a big tree when you found your way up as high as you could go. You kept pointing us to a "fig party" here and there under some leaves. I was feeling full up with joy, overflowing even, as we picked fruit and brushed off mosquitoes. After much refusal, you finally decided to taste a fig. You loved it, as I predicted.


If we're patient, Kid, we'll find the climbing trees and we'll taste the good fruit.

Love,

Mama

p.s. A couple of weeks ago, after a really long day with no rest time, you fell asleep on my lap, in my arms, on the bench in our backyard. It was pretty exquisite, the knowing I had in that moment, that it was probably the last time we'd be right there, where I could still lift you and take you to your bed, where we both fit on the bench. I found myself trying to memorize, again, the weight of you in my arms.