My husband is gone. Again. I woke at four am, wide, wanting. This time of year always surprises me. The strength of spring, how alive and and tremendous it all is. The way that is juxtaposed with my intense exhaustion. Nine months with the children. Nine months of words and lessons, provocations and assessments. My own children have endured nine months of our insane routine. Ins and outs and all arounds when all they want is to stay in their jammies, play Baby/Mommy, shuffle around in the early hours, slowly flow into their day.
I didn't plan on having such a big year. Didn't know that going back to work full-time would coincide with Jeff's fellowship, with all these weeks of going it alone. Like anything, single mamaing is a muscle and I've actually become much better at it. I know that burritos and parks work wonders. I try to sneak in exercise whenever I can. I rely on my beautiful friends, Jeff's mama, the proverbial village. But dang. Sometimes I just miss my husband. Sometimes I just want to have him here with me, not to necessarily help, but to be. To take it all in. To hold these moments.
Solomon will be three in a week. He's so big all of the sudden, a mess of unruly curls, all words and songs, heavy flat feet running, running. Eliana navigates his world with a sense of grace and purpose, albeit, a bit controlling. They are such a team. For better or for worse.
Our little unit will enjoy this weekend. Hell, it's supposed to hit seventy today. That's alone is cause for celebration. The way the grass proclaims her return, how vivid and green.
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