We slept with the windows open last night, waking to the song of birds. I pulled out of the driveway this morning to take my daughter to school, the windows cracked in the car, reveling in the perfect weather: not hot, not cold, no coat needed.
It’s this brief window of time in Michigan, come spring and come again fall, when we don’t need coats and we’re not cranking up the a/c or heat. Which makes it such a gift.
Last night, I sat on a picnic table metal bench with three mom-friends at my son’s first baseball game. We wore sunglasses, but eventually the sun fell below the treetops and we could peel away the barrier and look straight into each other’s eyes.
One mom proclaimed that she has no problem with confrontation. That’s what happens in our 40s. We get brave, we get real, we don’t deal with the shit anymore.
Except not all of us can do that. We can bask in the glow of a just-perfect night falling and watch our little ones round the bases, happy just to be on the field, sliding in the dirt to mar their white pants.
In my head, I pitch a good argument. But in reality, I weigh and measure: should I say this? Is it worth it? What is the real goal?
Except…why put up with other people’s dysfunction any longer? Really.
Today, three-quarters of my family leave for our holiday weekend vacation. My daughter and I have time alone until we meet them. Work to do, things to check off. We will eventually all meet up.
Last night, I had dinner alone late with my little guy after a game well-played. The house was awake far too late in the night but happy. That’s all we can ask for.
This morning, when I wrote a note on the yellow polka dot napkin in my daughter’s lunch, I said, Have a happy day. Love, Mommy
That’s all we can ask for. And it should be more than enough.