Currently

We finish The Hobbit. We bring home a farm mutt called Louie, supply dozens of lone socks for his milk teeth. I drive Ken to the airport at 6am, an errand that feels more familiar than either of us want it to. The kids and I attend six weeks’ worth of expected celebrations solo – graduations, birthday brunches, baby showers – and try to represent well. Neighbors come for trampoline feuds, hurl water balloon bombs by the dozen. I fix our oven.

I help my mother-in-law move after a decade of living two doors down. On trips to and from the attic, we find – as all homeowners do – boxes still undisturbed from prior moves: newspaper articles of accomplishments long forgotten, home videos no one can bear to toss into Thursday night’s garbage pick-up. She sifts, I haul, the kids sort.

I style her home for the listing photos. I meander around the house, replace family heirlooms with modern art. I feel a pang of something I can’t yet name. Shame over succumbing to the idea that desirable dwellings must remain anonymous, faceless? Remorse for replacing her grandchild’s joyful countenance with a Hotel Keenan pencil drawing, her Thomas Kinkade blanket for a sheepskin? Regret at how easy this all is, harkening back to my influencer days, knowing exactly which Target pillow will “perform”? 

No, it is this: after weeks of wading through memories not mine, I brush up against the one thing nearly every parent has in common with their children – they share the same glory days. Much is forgotten of a family’s hardship, a child’s growing pains, a parent’s wobbly lack of confidence. What is left are the sepia smiles. The past has a way of glimmering, and we hang on dearly to the afterglow. Despite savage failures on either side, it all adds up to something in the end. We frame it – the stories, the photos – to tell ourselves that our efforts were good, lovely, worthwhile.

Until we don’t. We stow away the photos, trinkets, mementos and swap it all for houseplants to make a home more palatable, current. We give away what was once meaningful, price it far below its value for a garage sale nickel. We send messages to the family text thread – Anyone want Daddy’s old work boots? – and are met with the truth: our lives are but dust. No one wants proof.

Today, the attic is empty. I ask my mother-in-law if she’d like to be the one to do the honors, to close the scuttle door for the final time. She laughs, waving a dismissive hand at the excessive sentiment. But she doesn’t say no.

The hour we bring Louie home, my sister calls to tell me my father is in the ICU. Ken catches a flight. I order speech therapy charts, attempt to make myself useful as the youngest in a string of very capable, medically-minded daughters. When he’s released, I drive to my hometown, bring him a buzzer he can smack when he’s tired of his girls fussing over him. He “tests” it many times in a single afternoon. I leave after the sun sets. He practices saying our names.

I meal prep for a family of twin babies and reprimand myself for my (naive) envy. The kids bring back their summer newspaper. We send Ken every edition, waiving the long distance shipping fee for our favorite subscriber.

We host new friends for chips and guac, witness rollicking tales of Ironman races and tri-suit mishaps. We replace the missing Laurie Berkner CD. I celebrate a friend’s birthday with a walk downtown, popping in to the boutique hotel for a croissant sandwich, choosing a new scent at the local boutique. I take the kids to see their friends perform 42nd Street. 

Our eldest digs up lamb’s ear for planters, moves petunias to the window boxes. I smile at her frugal ways. She and I approach gardening in the same manner as decor: when itching for change, rearrange. 

A great uncle volunteers guitar lessons on Monday afternoons. The kids play endless soccer matches in the backyard. I remember to pick up extra popsicles in the new heat. The youngest can buckle her own car seat now, whispers “May God be with you,” every night. Growing, every last one of us.

This is the month in which I am reminded that frequent neighborhood walks are one of the more redeeming habits we can all believe in. Anytime works. Pre-dawn, when you’ll be happily awed at how many fellow locals still believe in a slow delivery of news ink. Noon, for a gentle smattering of freckles on your shoulders. Evening, to say hello to everyone’s dogs, of course. 

On Mother’s Day, I sneak out for a loop around the park and watch a young couple climb out of their SUV, two dogs in the back. The girl changes into sneakers in the parking lot, bends down to feel how hot the pavement is before opening the door to lower her Corgis down for a hike.

We take good care of each other when we can, is what I mean.

Today, I surrender to the annual request for a cardboard shield, this time for the youngest. More tape on that side, says one child, while another supervises the harness cuts. Mom did this for me when I was your age, a brother whispers to a sister. She’s our armor bearer.

The description makes me tear up, scissors in hand. I thank him for the honor, secretly vowing to be kinder to myself.

Of the many names I have answered to in my mind, his is one I hope to keep.

We book one-way tickets to head west. I hold the mail. We arrange for lawn care. Everything is in the air, roots dug up and drying in the sun. I remind myself to drink more water in higher elevations. The air is thin. My patience, too.

We’re where we need to be right now, I tell myself until I believe it.