I think that the weeks are rolling by. Then I start to think that the months are rolling by.
The weather is cold, mostly grey, and it’s hard to reconcile with the fact that it’s May. There are still flowers on the magnolia, hiding behind the soft flush of new leaves. The wisteria, which we planted last spring, unfurled leaves of copper-tinted green which were all frazzled in the heavy frost last week. The budding leaves of the hibiscus too are curled with frost damage. The lawn, each year narrower than the year before, has been bolstered by new turf along one edge. The other side is patiently waiting its turn. The new grass is growing thick and lush, several shades darker than the rest of the lawn.
We went to France for Easter. Early one morning, I climbed out of the bedroom window & down the stone steps to the garden to go for a run. As I left the thick walls of the house my emails came through and I found myself looking at the Pip-Pop’s school acceptance. In September we will have three children at school. And, for a year, they will all be at the same school. A time of endings; a time of new possibilities. I exist–wave/particle–in an unresolvable combination of sadness & possibility.
(Both times I ran when we were in France I saw a hare at the same turn in the road.)
WordPress congratulates me on ten years of blogging. Though this isn’t strictly true (there’s a five year gap between one post and the next), I still remember setting up my blog in the days of maternity leave just before T was born. I remember thinking that a year’s maternity leave would be an ideal time to write (to which I now, of course, think, ha!).
Because she was eleven days late, I spend a long time each year thinking of those days just before she was born, just before we became parents. I think now of how very young we were. Of how the more days that went by, the less likely it seemed that we were having a baby at all. I remember B sanding the floor of the room that would one day be her’s (–though we didn’t set up a nursery because, in a two bedroom flat, it was a room that we wanted to be ours for as long as possible). There’s a photo of me from those days of waiting. Sitting alone on the sofa, huge, smiling, knitting on my lap. The blanket I was knitting is still on the needles ten years later.