It's All About Getting Home Safely Anyway, Right?

image from sarahjanestudios

We have our first T-ball practice in T minus three hours. I don't think it would be hyperbole to say I'm having a small anxiety attack about it; I know what this is the beginning of. The online registration quickened my pulse; I think I was breathing Lamaze while entering my payment information. I know. It will be so fun for Henry (he's been asking about the five thirty hour ALL. DAY. LONG.) He's napping with his mitt as I type this.

I'm just apprehensive about the phase of life this represents. And, harder to swallow, the one that has to end with this new beginning.

I'm not sure I can describe the way I've savored the life with little children. Awakened every morning by none other than our own circadian rhythms. (Nate's is the only body that even stirs at the sound of an alarm.) Shuffling sleepily in our pajamas as long as we like. The most pressing issues being choices between breakfast options (yogurt and fruit or oatmeal and toast ?) Deciding together, often in a tub of soapy water, on the plan de jour. Coming and going mostly as we please. Meeting friends at the park, and staying for almost three lazy hours. Because the children are busy, happily tiring themselves on stick-hunts and forest-explorations. Because the breeze keeps coming. And so does the conversation. And the only thing waiting at home is the day's clutter and a sinkful of dishes that need to be done before dinner is started. Home for quiet time. The four o'clock bewitching hour (that lasts 'til daddy comes home) at which point we've exhausted our cheer, our plans and our creativity. It's survival mode 'til the hum of the garage door announces that back-up has arrived. Then dinner. Rough play with dad, maybe some yard work. A family walk if we fancy. And bedtime (early if the patience has expired, later if not). No distinction between school nights and weekends, only the query as to whether or not daddy gets to stay home in the morning. The timetables have been self-imposed. Appointments made to harmonize with the rhythm of our days. Plans kept to a minimum. Spontaneity reigning.

And perhaps I'm giving way to a bit of senseless drama, but I feel like that's all beginning to end. With T-ball. Our first scheduled commitment (that's happening more than once - eight weeks! Committed to it with our Mastercard.)

It will end. Summer will come. And then there's fall -- with community classes on the horizon, more of schedules, more of commitments. And kindergarten waits in the wings, its shadow getting bigger every week. Ack. (Exhale).

I've never been good at change, especially the anticipation of it. Especially when I've loved the status quo the way I've loved the past four years. I just have to let myself mourn the end of this chapter for a bit...for about three more hours.

Then it's Root! Root! Root! for the hometeam. I've never been one to hoop-n-holler, but I'm sure I'll surprise myself when my little man is up to bat.

Run, Henry! Run!

You're doing just what you're supposed to. And I'm right behind you, trying to keep up, trying to loosen my white-knuckle grip on your little-boy-hood. Adjusting my helmet, taking a practice swing (and a few deep breaths), and stepping up to the plate of this new stage of motherhood.