As I cleaned off the desk I came across her address.  Instant regret.

I didn't know her well but had wanted to write her a letter knowing she was dying.

I drive around, the blue sky allowing my thoughts to be bigger.

Lines from the poem "I tremble on the edge of a maybe" ring in my ears.

(Poem by Ted Loder)

I became smitten at the Cape.

So could not resist this house with the

abundant blue hydrangea.

Each summer again enamored.

It doesn't look like much.  Not much at all.  

But I see the cleaned out flower bed with green sprouting.

And a beginning.

Of days spent enjoying all that the brown dirt will bring.

Time spent with your Dad is always a good thing.

No matter how old you become.

As I finished braiding my hair I felt like myself.

We've lived in this house a long time and I should know.  

But every spring I am delighted to remember where bulbs are growing.

The last time he helped measure and pour the dry ingredients he spilled a lot.

This time, not a speck.

He concentrated so hard and he did it.

It was a difficult conversation.

And it feels awkward now.  It will for awhile.

But I am okay with that.

Each year we pledge to have a garden.

And fail miserably.

But still my heart races a bit when I see the first seed packets and garden clogs,

making me believe this year will be different.

thinking about change is exhilirating

and frightening

the knot in my stomach an indication of the

importance of it all

I couldn't even remember the last time I ate snow.

Long enough ago that the taste alluded me.

So, yes, I indulged.

Why only let the kids?

And, then I remembered. 

It's as if eating light, crisp, cold air.

I looked up and he seemed to be older.

How did that happen?

Of course he could read.  But like that?

Intense, interested, engaged.  

A newly-arrived Lego magazine chosen over computer.

When oh when.

how devastating to catch yourself 

stomping your feet

voice raised

and realize that mothering can be very very hard

I'd almost forgotten the magic of the words "Daddy Snow Day."  

The text of closing coming in the wee morning.

So the day was filled with pajamas and play and perfect homemade pancakes.

I was going to select the black toaster.

My son knew better.

And simply got the red one off of the shelf and put it in the cart.

When he woke me up this morning he told me we were out of coffee.

Drat.

Then said, "That is why I ran out and got you a half caf soy latte."

Love.

Cooped up all afternoon, the sun was getting low when we finally convinced them to go out.

Then we couldn't lure them back in.

The foot of snow that had fallen, now shoveled into mounds, was much too compelling.

it occurred to me then that

two and a half sticks of

butter was decadently 

acceptable

they wouldn't nap

so we made cookies

instead

of losing my mind