I love Spring.

The boy ran in his first race.

The kids played at the park. Together.

And I kept working and learning. I’m in the midst of a new class, so I’m sure I’ll be posting lots of photos over the next few weeks!

What’s your Essence of Now? The link will be open a week!

Boys or girls, it doesn’t matter.

Both are challenging.

Heart-wrenching.

Painstaking.

As a woman, sometimes it’s easy for a mom to identify more with her daughter.

Our experiences are— or will be— shared.

I think about my own road growing up.

About learning to balance strength and femininity, self-respect and social acceptance.

Developing my own concept of self.

Trying to navigate the world around me.

It wasn’t always fun.

And I can’t say that it was easy.

Or that people were always kind.

But I don’t think my journey was unusual.

I don’t think this is a gender thing.

I think it’s a human thing.

I look at my children. They are shy with strangers but ultimately self-assured.

They have no fear that they aren’t good enough, fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, attractive enough or whatever else enough there is.

They don’t know self-doubt or self-loathing, insecurity or guilt.

They live in the moment, not in the worries about things said or unsaid, the uncertainty of what will come tomorrow.

They don’t worry about what they are wearing or if their friends are somewhere without them or if the joke they made wasn’t funny.

They hold their heads high.

I know growing up is going to be hard.

I know they will face challenges, from the world and from themselves.

I know I can’t shield them from everything.

But I hope, when all is said and done, that they can both walk with certainty and confidence.

Happy with their paths, excited about their destinations.

And comfortable with whom they are.

Warmer days.

Fun at home.

School picnics.

It was a good week.

What’s your Essence of Now? The link will be open a week!

I still can’t believe it.

It’s not like I haven’t known it was coming, after all.

But she is ninety.

We celebrated today.

On Mother’s Day.

With all her favorite foods— ham and collard greens and creamed corn.

We ate Mississippi Mud pie for dessert.

I have her taste— it was all wonderful.

My mother, her daughter, cooked it all.

In my family, food is an offering of love.

She enjoys Walmart and Costco.

She goes to the beauty parlor every week to have her hair done.

I’m not sure exactly what they do.

But she’s gone, just the same, my entire life.

The flowers in her yard and the birds on the lake and the stories on HGTV, they all fascinate her.

And she adores her great grandchildren.

She will read to them and play with them as long as they will let her.

Many times, nearly every time we are at her home, she leaves the dinner table early to go “watch” my kids.

It lets me finish my meal— and it gives her more time with them.

They love her and can’t imagine a world without her.

Sometimes, when they were just a few months younger, I’d catch her trying to pick my children up.

She just wants to love them, and hold them, and kiss them.

Even though her balance is off and her gait unsteady.

She can’t help herself.

She raised my mother, alone, for many years.

Before that was common, in a different time.

She is stronger than I think I will ever realize.

I remember going to visit her home, far away, when I was a child.

I remember how she still worked.

And I remember when she retired.

I remember the smell of her home— of biscuits and humidity and green beans cooked for hours on end.

I remember my grandfather.

And I miss him.

It’s been more than 15 years.

Going to their house was always a treat, always one of my favorite things.

I remember the feel of the sheets, dried on a clothes line in her backyard, and the scratchy bedspread beneath my chin.

I remember handing her clothes pins and helping in the garden.

I remember the summer I took the bar exam.

At that point, she had moved, she was living near my mother.

And I visited her, nearly every day.

That was over ten years ago.

She missed my wedding.

It was a dark spot for me on that day.

I know she would have done anything to be there.

But she was recovering, from a terrible fall, in the hospital.

And now, now, she is ninety.

We are so lucky to have her.

Sandals.

Bubbles.

Even when we are stuck inside with the rain, we can tell Spring is here.

Life seemed good.

But this little girl? Things weren’t normal with her. She’s fine, now, but she had a seizure this week. And I fear our world may have changed.

They really are family, aren’t they?

What’s your Essence of Now? The link will be open a week!

Its movement.

Its fluidity.

The ocean.

Lakes.

Streams.

And rain.

Even rain.

I love the way it hits the skylights in our home.

The sound of it on our deck.

The feel of being inside, warm and dry while it pours outside.

The smell of it in the air.

I can watch the water streak the pane of a window for hours at a time.

Sometimes, I take the kids to the front porch—it’s covered—so we can sit in the damp and watch it fall from the sky.

My son, he’s my child, dances into the rain, embracing the drops that hit his smile and balancing on the balls of his feet.

The baby, my toddler, laughs and points at the water in the air.

Rain, as my boy will tell you, waters the earth and helps the plants—the trees, the flowers and his garden—grow.

I love rain as much as I love sun.

Yin and Yang.

Light and dark.

Dry and wet.

But this spring, we haven’t had much balance.

It’s been cold and wet.

And we’ve been stuck inside.

While the weather refuses to cooperate.

Today, we set up a watering can outside.

We’re conducting an “experiment” to see how much rain we can collect this week.

I’m running out of creative ideas.

While I love the rain, I can only enjoy it so much.

It’s supposed to rain most of this week.

I’m ready for the sun to come back.

His calls reach through the night and pull me awake.

I stumble upright and grab my glasses, heading toward my firstborn’s room.

I struggle to lift my feet, to walk lightly, as I pass the baby’s room on my way.

I am groggy.

It is early.

Too early.

Again.

Through my foggy brain, anger threatens.

Frustration, mingled with exhaustion is a dangerous concoction.

It has gotten the best of me more than once.

I hate that.

But this time, from somewhere deep, my heart pulled my anger back, reined it in, as I moved down the hallway.

He seems so old, so much of the time.

But he isn’t.

He’s still not much more than a baby.

My baby.

And he’s calling his mama in the dark.

When I push upon the door to this room, I see him, sitting up in his bed.

He’s holding his lovey and his bear.

Looking for me.

Waiting.

He’s not under the covers, he’s never under the covers, but he has on his footy pajamas.

At least I know he’s warm.

And he looks at me.

“Is it time to get up yet, Mama?”

His voice is clear and optimistic.

He’s not groggy.

Or grumpy.

Even though it’s not time, of course.

I had looked at the clock as I left my room.

It’s 4:30 in the morning.

We have a couple hours to go.

But that means nothing to him.

While he knows that 15 is more than 10, he doesn’t understand the meaning of time.

“Mama, will you stay with me?”

That’s the real reason he called me in.

He knows that if it’s dark outside, it’s too early.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not lonely.

“Will you sleep in my bed until it’s time to get up, Mama?”

I’m just so tried.

So very tired.

Again.

But this is it.

This is what parenting is about.

I don’t really want to spend the next two hours sleeping next to an acrobat in training.

A child who regularly sings himself, and rest of us, awake starting at 6 am.

I just want to go back to my warm bed and my comfortable pillow.

But I love him.

And I want to spend as much time as I can cuddling a little boy who won’t want to cuddle his mom for much longer.

Even at 4:30.

And so I pull back his train blanket and the quilt covered in footballs and baseballs and lacrosse sticks.

I slide underneath the sheet and pull him close.

The bed is cold, but he is warm.

He smells like sleep and baby shampoo.

As I lay back on his pillow, he settles next to me.

He spends a few minutes, detailing the adventures of the crocodiles he thinks are patrolling the halls while we sleep.

And then his breath slows.

His body relaxes.

And his hand reaches to touch my face.

To rest on my cheek.

It’s a good place to sleep.

Even if it’s not where I expected I would be.