transitions

I'm not a huge fan of transitions.  I'm not sure who is.  My kids certainly aren't too into them.  I remember in our wild and sometimes dark early twenties, finding Melissa at the end of a long day.  She'd exclaim with tears or disdain, "I'm transitioning."  I remember how valid those words were.  Transitioning.  A time for the gamut of emotions to run amuck.

Last week I was transitioning.  I left California, left my family, left my gorgeous, perfect little niece.  The week was full, as they always seem to be.  When we felt the wheels of our airplane lift off into the sky, Eliana looked at me with full, sad eyes and said, "Mom.  I just miss them all already."  I know exactly how she feels.   Eliana and Sol have twenty cousins in California.  Twenty!  There is an enormous amount of fun to be had.  Some highlights include the three of us (that's me, Elie and Sol - we've become real tight like that this summer...) racing like landlocked fools into the Pacific Ocean, the 76 degree water like a giant, soft welcome home.  It was one of those moments when I marveled at where I come from.  Do people really live here?  With this amazing blue, watery thing in their backyards?  

Holding Mazzy.  That probably should move even before the ocean.  Her perfect little breaths.  Her tiny nose.  The way my sister watches her, feels her, moves with her.  Her squeaks and squawks.  A miracle.

And watching the generations share that miracle.  How we all wanted our turn.  The way Sol gave her a shout out at the dinner table. (Eliana is way into dinner table questions.  Her question that night, "What is your favorite part of nature."  Sol's answer, "Mazzy.")  Watching Wendy rock her quietly on her front porch.  The way my mom can sit still forever with Mazzy in her arms. 











 More generational love.  Watching my parents (long divorced), reading to Eliana together, propped up on pillows like they used to, just hanging out. 

The way Eliana and Sol and Piper can play and play in that special cousin way. 

The way Eliana wanted to practice all of her cousin's names so that she didn't confuse any of Tim and Laura's girls (which isn't easy, as there are six).  It was solid time.  I was solidly present with my babies the whole time.  Present in that elevated way that comes when you are the only parent.  The only parent and traveling.  Present personified. 

Then we transitioned back home.  I saw Jeff at the airport and I felt myself breathe a huge sigh of relief, felt my feet plant a bit more firmly on the earth, felt my heart rate slow.  I love where I come from, but golly moses, it wears me out.  Do it single mama style while my two babes are at the top of their wild game, and it makes for a wee bit of tension in the old shoulders. 

So I took a big breath in of dry, hot, Montana August air, the brown mountain backdrop, the low, dark, end-of-summer rivers.  The rest of the week was a slow savor of the last free days.  Long jammied mornings.  Lots of hot water pour overs for me and the french press.  Awaiting daddy's arrival home so that we could all venture out to a park or a meander around the neighborhood.  . 

The slow was extra appreciated as we anticipate the next transition.  The next transition that we entered today.  Soli's first day of junior preschool (that my friend, Jeremy, hilariously labeled, "JPS").  My first day back at work, full-time.   Elie's last week before kindergarten.  We're all grown up around these parts. 

The kids were exhausted after their respectively full, kiddo centered days.  A random, freakish storm shut down the power, so we bathed by candlelight and went to bed early.  As I was reading on the deck, watching the red ball of sun grace the smokey sky, I felt the presence of a little person.  Eliana needed a little q.t. before bed.  I poured myself a glass of wine, poured E a glass of milk.  We toasted to kindergarten, to sunsets, to change.  We watched the sun disappear.  Then mourned how quickly it was all over.  Then celebrated that it would all happen again tomorrow.