Kids playing happily upstairs. At one point Aviva is the doctor with a little pen light, Pearl’s pants are down, and from the other room I hear V exclaim, “Pearl! I found your anus!” Next thing I know, Pearl is Big Brother Sam and Aviva is Tinkerbell. Greg’s watching Christopher Walken on youtube.
I went to Jennifer’s Mother’s Day yoga class yesterday and fell asleep in almost every restorative pose, came home to surprise brownies and the sun emerging after an afternoon of heavy rains. The kitchen is buried by signs of life and good intentions. And somehow, I’m at peace.
Pearl’s now screaming upstairs because I wouldn’t give her more syrup on her momo (oatmeal). Greg and V are snuggled up reading color comics. We paid his mom a Mother’s Day visit and stopped at Gardener’s Supply on the way home, wandering around imagining having the money to spend on beautifying our yard. We left with a couple of little potted plants the girls chose “for me.”
It’s all ordinary. And yet, we’re changing around here. Little by little. It’s not flashy or headline-worthy, thank God.
And now many hours have gone by. It’s late. I didn’t run all weekend. I actually feel rested, napped today with my daughters. My daughters. Still it catches me off guard sometimes, saying those words.
The little plant Pearl picked is in the kitchen window above the stove, wrapped in shimmery orange-yellow ribbon, her current favorite colors. Reaching from its tiny pot, which it will soon topple and outgrow. Aviva’s begonias are on her nightstand.
I’m looking up from all the “small a” agendas around me, the ones I swim in, we all do. It’s the beginning, all over again, of seeing the Big A. The place we’re going together, these kids growing up incredibly not someday, but this day. Brimming.