On the Second Day of School

In the still morning, as I silently practice my orisons, I hear the unexpected trilling of tree frogs calling to each other in the forest. Slowly, as the mist rises, single crickets and katydids add to the morning song. Eventually there is a chorus, and I must strain to hear the frogs, still singing.

Squirrelboy and Faerygirl are off to their second day of school. Yesterday went well, with much excitement. This morning, though, Squirrelboy cried and tried to stay with me. Our bus driver is the best...she reassured me all would be well, and when the bus passed by again on its route, flashed me a thumbs-up.

These early autumn mornings always stir my soul, with their golden soft light, the coolness of the air, and the slowly depreciating chorus of singers. It will not last much longer, a few months more. Ah, but it will be beautiful. It IS beautiful. These days encourage us to enjoy each and every moment as it lasts, and to give thanks for it. And so I do.

The Kind of Mother I Am

This is the kind of mother I am: on a sunny November afternoon, I chase my almost-4-year-old child into puddles along the driveway. This is not a problem, since he always wears "muck" boots. We pretend I am the Wicked Witch of the West, cackling after him, but I cannot risk going close to water. He splashes at me most joyfully. As we near the house, I steer him towards the largest, deepest puddles of all. For a long time, he races back and forth through them, trying to kick the water close enough to "melt" me. I'm not really interested in getting wet, but I love those frabjous smiles set in a face taken straight from a Renaissance Cupid. Soon enough, his pants are brown and wet, his boots are full of water, and his coat is dripping. He comes to pour the boot water on me. I "melt" dramatically. Then I tell him he might as well take off his socks, too. Beaming, my little guy goes back to the deep pools, digging in the mud with his bare toes, splashing with his small hands, feeling all the temperatures and textures of a mud hole in the woods. He tells me that mud feels squishy, leaves feel dry, rocks feel poky, and the water feels wet. I watch carefully for signs of being chilled, but there are none. No goosebumps, no red feet or fingers. We rejoice in the sun and water and trees and time. It is a moment of kairos. But finally, the Wicked Witch of the West decides to transform into a Good Witch, and make a potion. The little one is lured inside to rest in a bath while his mother makes hot chocolate. Now, as I write, he is naked, wrapped in a very soft blanket, drinking fabulous hot chocolate and eating cheese crackers.