Slipping. Slipping. 

There’s a precipice here somewhere. I get near it. Then I rally, plant some flowers, get ice cream and step back. But then the ground gets shaky and the earth erodes and suddenly, there’s that edge again. 

One breath at a time. One moment at a time.

The three year old informs me that “our feets  have thumbs too, mom.” I hang onto those observations because I am convinced that’s what matters. I ignore the heaviness in my gut, exhaling it out. 

Rainy days always do this to me. Time to pick fresh flowers. Carefully. 

Friday with Sam. I’ll drink my coffee slowly while I catch up on a show. Together we’ll search for his prized Lightning McQueen car. Then we’ll head to our dear neighbor’s house for some coffee talk where we swap stories and affirm each other until we both sit back and sigh contentedly, amazed at the good fortune we’ve found in each other. 

Good Friday. The day 30 years ago that I walked down the front steps of our trailer and found my mangled dog Benjamin lying at the foot of them. He was dead. So was Jesus. Though I had years of strong Catholic tradition behind and ahead of me, I will always think of Benjamin first on this day. 

Today is a fun day with Maia in a new city, clean of memories and markers – though we bring enough between us that there is no void. We will start the day by researching “best brunch” and she will have pancakes, I will have eggs. And then everything is easy. We will move fluidly, flexibly as if we are parts of the same body – because we ARE, on one hand. But on the other hand, she is so much herself and I am so much myself and it occurs to me that this is what mothering is about.