This afternoon I walked to the bus stop with a cup of coffee in one hand and pushing the stroller with the other. But I looked down and realized how much more I brought along.

I wonder if the other moms at our bus stop notice that, whenever they see me, I am drinking coffee. Lukewarm (and reheated) out of ceramic mugs in the mornings, and iced in the afternoons. Today I glance at the cup emblazoned with the logo of my former company and remember the day I bought it from the traveling store in my office lobby with the points I’d earned as a thank you for various jobs well done. I was wearing heels. (I mean, I don’t remember what I was wearing that particular day, but I was always wearing heels.) I chuckle at what the me who bought that coffee cup would think if she saw it being used now. 

Three years later, that cup is two states removed and a world away from transporting coffee on a drawn-out commute. I sometimes don’t recognize this girl with the wet hair pulled haphazardly into a bun, trying  her best to speak in measured tones and driving around her three-square-mile life in a minivan littered with water bottles, coloring pages and coffee cups. I love coffee, for sure, but I drink it now as if for sustenance. If you ever have occasion to be in my kitchen around 7AM, you might overhear me mutter to no one in particular, “sweet nectar of life” while pouring coffee.  

The blond little boy in the stroller with the sideways glance and the infectious smile is responsible for the coffee, the dark circles under my eyes, the extra five “nursing pounds” and various extra inches I’m also carrying. Of course, this boy we prayed for and, at times, wondered whether we would ever meet, also deserves credit for the extra laugh lines earned since January and another room carved out in my growing heart.

I look down at my red shoes, the same ones I wore to the hospital the night I went into labor with Deacon, hours before the most triumphant moment of my life thus far, the ones  that inspired my doula (who is now my friend) to share the quote from The Wizard of Oz, “You’ve always had the power, my dear, you just had to learn it for yourself.”

I look at the outfit I chose for our play date this morning with new friends at the park, an outfit I first wore more than three years ago on our anniversary trip to Italy, soaking up every bit of a gorgeous sunset overlooking the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.

I wince as I note the red rubber bracelet on my wrist, the first of its kind I’ve ever worn.  The one I wear now to remind me to pray for our friends’ 8-year-old who is so courageously fighting cancer. Our friends who are facing this trial with more grace than I can even believe is possible. This red bracelet that represents so much fear, many tears and difficult conversations with my children, but also so much beauty I can hardly stand it.

We arrive at the bus stop a few minutes early, so I pick up my sleepy four-year-old for a heavy, awkward cuddle. Her legs dangle long, and she won’t be small enough for this for much longer. I can’t remember the last time I did this with her first-grade sister.  The bus comes, and my six-year-old with the hot pink Nikes and uneven pigtails is the first to come running. I plant a kiss on her head and we start back toward the house. 

So when I see you with faraway eyes or a distracted tone, when I take note of the clothes you wear or the bag you carry, I will  try to afford you the grace I would want. I will try to remember we're all bringing a lot more with us than we ever let on.

As my children gleefully counted down days to the start of school, I felt dread in the pit of my stomach. The kind of dread I’ve always had in August and have never been able to explain. I loved school. I loved back to school shopping, new outfits, my birthday, which always occurs in the first few weeks, the changing season—I have always loved it all. But as the shadows lengthen and the days grow shorter, a large part of my heart mourns the end of summer every year, and even more so now that my children are affected.

I worked for most of Mirabella’s preschool years, but I also got a “bonus” year last year when I homeschooled her for kindergarten. I know beyond  a shadow that she is ready for first grade, and her unbridled enthusiasm as she runs onto and off of the bus each day is such beautiful confirmation for me. 

Still when I sat in the stale smelling gymnasium five days before school started, I felt panicked. I looked around at all the strangers, many of whom sat and chatted easily with each other, many of whom seemed older and more seasoned than I, others younger, and still others probably right where I am. I looked around and thought there’s no way this is here already. No way I am already out of the season of having all of my children home. Gone are the impromptu trips to visit family in the middle of the week in the middle of a month. Wait, we never really did that—why didn’t we do that while we had the chance? My mind raced. I fidgeted and attempted a couple of half-hearted smiles when I caught someone’s eye. It was just all too soon.

Later that night I stood in front of the women manning the PTA table, whose broad smiles overwhelmed me. When they asked me if I’d be interested in joining, I practically moaned my answer. “Don’t say it like that,” one woman scolded, sounding offended. 

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “This is just it, right? This is a moment. It’s here and I wasn’t ready.” She laughed uncomfortably, perhaps because I don't laugh when I'm uncomfortable; I just keep talking.

These first few weeks have been so much adjustment. Waking early which, in theory, I like but which would be much easier if I weren’t (still!) up all night. Encouraging the children to own their tasks so I don’t have to nag all morning. Taking all three kids to the bus stop, bringing only two home. Three days per week, Emerie is in preschool for a few hours, so I run her a couple blocks away to school, then rush home to attempt to give the baby a nap. After lunch, I collect her again and rush home to try to get both littles to nap before waking them to hurry back to the bus stop. Somewhere between the stops and starts, in the surprisingly small windows of time,  I attempt to clean something or procure something or cook something or talk to someone or rest.  Before I know it each day, the day is gone and it’s bed time—it feels like it’s always almost bed time. 

There is so much that is so good in this new season. The girls are ecstatic about school—the structure, the routines, the culture, the new friends, the new everything—each of them emerges bursting with excitement about her day. I am loving what the time apart is giving us, for the most part. They are excited to see each other, excited to play in the afternoons, excited to recount details to each other about their days. They are tired at bedtime, and for all the things that are harder, many are also easier.

But in this change, though I celebrate it, I feel a bit unmoored.  I never had the chance, before, to be home with a baby. Recently as my four-year-old attended “big girl story time” at the library (no parents in the room), I sat on the floor while my infant played and while other moms around me chatted. This  pace is uncharted for me.  I don't always, as I have been in the habit of doing, narrate our days. Instead I listen to accounts of days I didn’t get to see. I try to think of creative, open-ended questions to elicit specific answers. I run errands with one child, or maybe two.  Our days feature bursts of activity, but things at home are slow and quiet. I rock a baby and I read stories, I cook dinner in the middle of the afternoon; I spend a lot of time on the floor. It’s subtle, but I am shifting from the foreground.

And it is—all of it— as it should be. My little fledglings are soaring. I am finding time to breathe, to meet new people and actually start to get to know a few a little better.  Lately I have had coffee dates and lunch dates and play dates that are intended as much for me as for my children. We are knitting ourselves into this community finally, mercifully, and it’s time. And if there’s anything bitter in the openness of my hand, it is all but overshadowed by all that is so sweet.