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Being James

So James and Owen are in preschool. They go five days a week, 9-11:30am. They seem to love it. (I love it.)

They’re excited to go in the morning. They’re all smiles when they climb up into the van when their day is done.

They sing the songs they learned. They tell me about the rug work they did, the books they listened to, the snacks they ate.

They eagerly show me their papers.

Owen:

James:

Owen (apparently he can write his own name and cut out bats):

James (this is about as much as he can get done without moving on to something else—in fact, I’m rather impressed with his “skeleton” above):

Today, Andy observed for a few minutes before going to work. Here’s a picture he took, of Owen and James “sitting” on the blue line:

I know you’re not supposed to compare but seriously, all of this cracks me up. Because here’s the thing: I’m not worried about James. Truly, I’m not. Give him a puzzle meant for 8+ and he’ll sit and concentrate, finishing it. Give him anything he shouldn’t take apart and he’ll expertly dismantle it. Give him a pile of tracks and he’ll put together an elaborate, working system. All the rest of it? Well, he just does things on his own time, in his own way.

OK, so maybe if by spring he’s still bringing home papers with only scribbles on them, I’ll worry (a little). And if one of his teachers tells us he’s being disruptive while (not) sitting on the line, we’ll talk with him. If any of this becomes a problem, we’ll deal with it.

But for now, carry on, little man. Carry on.

“If you cannot be a poet, be the poem.” —David Carradine

My Dad’s Retirement

Work, for my dad, started early—in life and in the day. He grew up on a hog farm in Lewisburg, Ohio. He helped with the hard work of the farm, and my grandparents paid him and his siblings for the work that they did. He went to college, taught, got a master’s degree and taught some more. He was good at his work, but he never let it define him. Case in point: In 1982, he started working for McGraw-Hill Book Company. I have postcards from the early 80s from places like New York City—places my dad traveled for work. I remember going to the airport with him, getting on his plane and stepping into the cockpit. I remember a pilot giving me my own pilot wings. I remember watching his plane leave the airport and I remember the excitement of postcards in the mail. I don’t know if I simply associate Harry Chapin’s “The Cat’s in the Cradle” with my dad’s decision to leave his district manager job or if the song truly influenced him but he did leave it after three years. And most of his career, from 1985 to 2013, was spent with Great Oaks Institute of Technology and Career Development, most recently as Vice President of Business Operations. He did a lot of good there.

In June, he retired.

We attended a banquet for all the Great Oaks retirees late this spring. His speech made me teary.

And then in June, Kyle from San Francisco, and Katy, Tom and Colleen from North Carolina, came to town to celebrate.

These were some of the best summer days and nights.

We celebrated many things that week. We had dinner at A Tavola followed by cake and gifts at our house to celebrate Father’s Day and my mom’s birthday.

Our immediate family toasted and gifted my dad after dinner at Troy’s Cafe. My mom gave him two engraved bricks that both say “But it’s Baseball! Gary Gebhart”—one’s at home, the other, at Great American Ball Park.

For weeks beforehand my mom gathered one word from people who know my dad—one word that describes him. She then made The List.

The List
caring
major league
sincere
genuineness
animates
thoughtful
worker
lists
builder
fanatical
awesome
smiley
OBT
stupendous
committed
loyal
trustworthy
quick-witted
magnanimous
friendly
organized
considerate
realistic
smiling
farmer
finisher
comfortable
conscientious
industrious
tenacious
Kotter
nice
loving
egalitarian
friends
baseball
glasses
passionate
kind
right
quick
interesting
helpful
respectful
genuine
witty
cute
card-maker
dedicated
baseball guru
photographer
inspirational
detailed
pliable
humorous
high-fives
perspicacious
dependable
late
funny
brotherly
Xenia
generous
Carnac the Magnificent
courteous
kind-hearted
diligent
fun
sports guru
brilliant
hospitable
family
supportive
selfless
beloved

The next day family, friends and colleagues attended a party at my parents’ house.

My dad and brother-in-law spent days preparing Detling Field for a ballgame. We played a bit but then …

a downpour.

Still, an enjoyable day, complete with Eli’s BBQ sandwiches for all.

Now my parents are both retired. My dad still works, but it’s work of his choosing. He gardens. He works in the yard. He works out. He attends services at First Unitarian Church of Cincinnati. He volunteers at the Freestore Foodbank. He tutors a kindergartener once a week at South Avondale Elementary School. Every week he and my mom go on a date—Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill, Findley Market, a concert in a coffee shop. Next weekend they’re going to Colonial Williamsburg to see the Threads of Feeling exhibit with my grandma and my sister and her family. They went to Hawaii.

My dad stopped by the other day, after tutoring, just to hang out, to play tickle monster with the kids, to be beat in Bingo. This time for him is so incredibly well-deserved. And I’m just so thankful to be a part of it.

“Don’t simply retire from something; have something to retire to.” —Harry Emerson Fosdick

My Online Stranger Friends

Before my first pregnancy, I was a message-board virgin. Once pregnant, a friend directed me to Baby Center. There I found Birth Clubs. I was due in July, and by becoming a member of July’s Birth Club, I could chat with hundreds of other moms also due in July. I found the questions, advice, links to other sites and debates addicting.

Then, I had a miscarriage. I posted a message to my Birth Club saying goodbye. The message was quickly pushed down the list by women worried about caffeine, venting about morning sickness and debating circumcision. Ready to log off, I noticed another message directing women due in July who had a miscarriage to the TTC (Trying to Conceive) After a Loss Bulletin Board. I was sad. I was curious. So I searched for the board.

Within this message board were threads. The women from my Birth Club had formed the December ’06 Angels thread. I paused after reading the word “angels.” In my mind, my child wasn’t a winged supernatural being waiting for me in heaven. Rather my child was a sesame-seed-sized embryo, something that resembled a tadpole more than a small human. But my image wasn’t purely biological. Intertwined with it was the painful knowledge that this embryo would never grow into a human being and experience the thrill of new love, the wonder of a shooting star or the simple pleasure of passing mashed potatoes around the dinner table. It was that sense of loss, the “what could have been,” that saddened me the most.

Still, no matter how often Andy and I talked, no matter how many cards I received, no matter how many “I went through that” stories I was told, the idea of being able to talk to women going through the same thing at the same time I was going through it intrigued me.

Clicking on the thread I saw that posters used the word “angel” a lot. Tickers and graphics cluttered the signatures of each post. Emoticons expressed moods. Acronyms were so commonplace at times I thought I was reading a foreign language. Glitter fonts were common.

To join, I needed to fill out a form with the following information: My first name, my logon name, my birthday and age, where I was from, the date I miscarried and any information I wanted to include about it, my TTC history, how many children I had, my angel’s EDD (Estimated Due Date) and where I was in my menstrual cycle.

I hesitantly filled out my form and with one click told complete strangers more information about my body than most of my closest girlfriends knew.

Women immediately posted condolences and welcomed me to the thread. And then they offered me something Andy couldn’t. These women, brazen with anonymity, actually talked about, in vivid detail, the horrific amount of blood that is lost and the intense cramping that’s common. After telling them I had decided to get a D&C, they questioned why I had to wait a week. They shared secrets on how to get through the day, the next hour, the moment. They posted things no one else I knew wanted to talk about or, perhaps more accurately, knew how to talk about.

I bonded with these women, these strangers.

Passionate about the board, I quickly learned the 91 acronyms. DH=Dear Husband. BFP=Big Fat Positive. DPO=Days Past Ovulation. HPT=Home Pregnancy Test. 2WW=Two Week Wait. BFN=Big Fat Negative. OPK=Ovulation Predicator Kit. CD=Cycle Day. US=Ultrasound. CF=Cervical Fluid.

Almost daily I posted updates about myself and personal messages to individual women. I wished testers good luck, scorned the unwanted AF (period) and congratulated the BFPs. Kathy, who took charge of our thread, constantly updating our information, created a folder for us to place pictures on an online photo-sharing site. There I looked at images of homes, children, vacations and faint lines on HPTs. Our losses—and hopes for the future—instantly brought us together.

Several months later, after what felt like a forever 2WW, I took a HPT. DH looked at it and smiled. I had a BFP.

Of course we couldn’t wait to tell our parents, siblings and friends. But I also couldn’t wait to tell the women on my board. Notes of congratulations in 24-point glitter fonts filled my screen as well as comments telling me to try not to worry. Many posters sent me virtual “sticky baby dust” and hoped my “little bean” would hold tight. I hoped so, too.

My first appointment at six weeks went well. My obstetrician confirmed the pregnancy and, after a physical exam, said everything felt fine. We schedule an ultrasound five days later.

This time, Andy held my hand and lowered his head as the technician moved the wand around, unable to find a gestational sac.

Thinking maybe my dates were wrong I had blood drawn and tested. I then had to wait a miserable 48 hours to have blood redrawn and tested. My Hcg levels had to double for the pregnancy to be viable. I started bleeding before I even got the results.

And so my sad story repeated itself, all over again: Crying in my Honda Civic in the medical office building’s parking lot after the ultrasound, the phone calls, the sick days from work. It may have been a different type of miscarriage, because it was so much earlier than my last, but it was a miscarriage all the same.

I shared my story with my online friends. Messages of condolences and virtual {{{{HUGS}}}} filled the thread. But I needed more this time. Or maybe I needed less. I needed a break.

Andy and I booked a trip to San Jose del Cabo on a Wednesday and left the following Saturday. It was, perhaps, the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done. For four nights and five days we drank rum and Diet Coke, watched pelicans skim the ocean and played Scrabble, the Spanish version.

It was exactly what I—we—needed.

But on the plane ride home, I realized I also—still—needed my friends—and my online, have-never-met-before women.

I wasn’t sure how they would take my three-week absence. Surely, I thought, they had forgotten me. It took two nights to skim through the many, many posts that had appeared during my break. I caught up on the new BFPs, the unwanted AFs and another poster who was going through a second miscarriage just like me.

“What’s wrong?” Andy asked on the second night, plopping down on the couch next to me, wondering why I was—again—crying. “They didn’t forget about me,” I said, reading the kind notes wishing me well and urging me back.

Fast forward seven years. Most of us are still in each other’s lives. We’ve left Baby Center and formed a private page on Facebook. I’m, at times, terribly neglectful with it as life pushes it aside but still, I try to skim at least a couple times a week. As a group we’ve had children, lost children, moved, found new jobs, divorced, found new loves, succeeded and failed. And it is crazy to me—crazy—that I know so much about a group of women I have never personally met.

And yet, it works.

Like today. Today was a blah day—I had no motivation to do anything. And while I respond to posts every once in awhile, I haven’t posted with this group in months. But today, I did. And today, like every other time I’ve infrequently posted, I received many kind replies, replies of “you’re not alone,” solid advice and encouragement.

The Internet can be a terrible place (just read comments to the essay I wrote here). But it also can be quite wonderful. Thanks to social media I found a gently used winter coat and snow bibs for Sophie today—a friend of a friend, responding to something I posted on Facebook.

Some say technology has made it impossible for us to truly interact with each other. Perhaps. But, perhaps not. Because of technology I’m friends with women from many different places and backgrounds, who are experiencing many different things—the only thing we have in common is a miscarriage around the holidays in 2006. And I imagine I will be part of these women’s lives as they are a part of mine for many, many years. Maybe someday we’ll meet. Maybe we never will. But they have impacted my life in ways, 10 years ago, I would have never imagined.

They say it takes a village. And it does. It’s just that my village, which consists of family, friends and now, online strangers, is so different from the villages a century ago. And yet, I’m so grateful for it—grateful for all its strangeness and grateful for all its beauty.

“The Internet is becoming the town square for the global village of tomorrow.” —Bill Gates

A New Ball Game

Now that Sophie’s older, I hesitate writing—deeply, sincerely, truthfully (the hard truths, anyway)—about her. I have a few, very specific memories from age 5. Her story is becoming her own now and I feel it’s her place to tell it someday, if she chooses—not mine.

That said, our stories often intertwine. As they did tonight.

I vividly remember sitting in the car and the smell of my new soccer ball between my knees. I was in the first grade. And terrified. It was a new game to me. I didn’t know the coaches. I didn’t know the players. I wasn’t certain of all the rules. I was worried, worried, worried—about making a mistake, messing up, not doing it right.

Sophie started soccer last week. It’s clear a good portion of her DNA is from me.

They’ve had two practices and one game. Tonight was practice No. 2 at 6:30pm. Andy had a softball game. At 6:30pm. I was flying solo.

The practice did not go well. Sophie insisted I hold her hand the entire time. (Side note: Her coach is great—constantly cheering her on, running a lap with just her to make her feel more comfortable, etc.) I tried to stay by her side, but I have two other children. James was screaming/crying/whining on the sideline the entire time. Owen was wearing yellow (thankfully) and at one point I (easily) spotted him playing with another kid and another parent on another field. (I’m drinking a glass of wine as I type this.)

My friends helped. A lot. They kicked an extra soccer ball around with Owen and James. They rummaged through my van for books for Owen and James and then read books while Sophie clung to my hand. They advised me to enjoy my previously mentioned glass of wine.

Near the end of the practice, Coach K asked if I wanted to play in a game. I looked up and spotted a flash of Owen’s yellow shirt semi close to the field Sophie was playing on. James was sitting in his Thomas the Train lawn chair, screaming. But sometimes we as parents have to make hard choices. And on this night, it was clear that Sophie needed me most.

“Yes,” I said.

The game was this: All the kids had their own soccer ball and dribbled it around the field. If they hit one of the coaches with their ball they got to tell that coach to make a loud animal sound of their choosing. Cute and clever.

However. My focus in all this wasn’t to really dodge balls. Instead I (in my ballet flats and skinny ankle jeans) was trying to keep track of Owen’s yellow shirt, mime to James that it’s OK and I’ll be with him soon, and persuade Sophie that soccer is really fun and that it’s OK to make mistakes. This made me a very.easy.target. Two minutes in I was surrounded by seven different kids consistently hitting me with their soccer balls and screaming “monkey!” “elephant!” “lion!” “zebra!” (and apparently my zebra sound isn’t up to par).

Parenting those first few blur-filled months is hard. But every few years you find yourself in an entirely different ball game.

When I was in junior high, I played intramural basketball. I was terrible, mostly because I was so timid—and like a certain 5-year-old I know, terrified of making a mistake. My dad went to all my games. I knew how to dribble. How to shoot. I knew the rules. What I needed was a lesson in aggression—and the knowledge that if the whistle is blown because of something I did, it’s OK. So he told me I had to foul. At my next game, I had to foul.

I don’t remember everything about that game. But I remember being nervous. Really nervous. And then I remember thinking of my dad and feeling brave. Really brave. And then I remember fouling, intentionally. And then, while my coach pulled me aside to explain to me why what I had done was wrong, I remember looking up at my dad, standing in the bleachers, clapping.

Sophie, if you’re reading this as a teenager or adult someday, and you remember how you felt at practice today, know this—I felt the same way. I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know when to push and I don’t know when to pull back. I don’t know how much hand-holding is OK and I don’t know how much bravery it’s right for me to expect. I know this is something you really want to do (because you keep telling me so every time I tell you it’s OK if you don’t want to do it) but I don’t know how to take that. Just as you’re so desperate for a play-by-play guidebook, I am, too.

Which, I guess just means we’ll just fumble through this together. And I hope, soon, I’ll find the answer, just as my dad did. And it will be you on the field, filled with bravery, and me in the stands, clapping with relief/pride.

“Soccer is simple, but it is difficult to play simple.” —Johan Cruijff

The Perils of Fatherhood

Ed note: Andy gave me full permission to write this post.

A couple weeks ago we were all on the couch. I was reading picture books out loud, to the kids. Andy found a marble in the couch, while I was reading. And for whatever reason he thought it would be funny to secretly put the marble inside his belly button and then surprise the kids with the fact that he had a marble stuck there once I finished the story.

Except, he fell asleep.

Fast forward several hours later. Andy’s doing our weekly grocery shopping trip, late at night, after the kids are in bed. He’s in the produce section when he notices something hard in his belly button.

It’s the marble.

I’m still laughing.

“My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.” —Clarence B. Kelland

James & Owen’s “Concert”

About 10 minutes ago Owen and James ran downstairs and started shouting something about a concert.

“What?” I asked.

“We have a concert for you!” they said. “Come upstairs to our concert!”

They were so excited.

And so was I. How imaginative! They did it all on their own! And I had heard no screaming for the 30 minutes prior so they did it together happily, nicely—no fighting at all.

We got to their bedroom door. It was closed, with a little tag hanging from the doorway.

How cute, I thought.

With great fanfare, they opened their door to …

this.

“Ta da!” they said.

“It’s everything in your room in a big pile,” I said.

“Yes!” they screamed. “It’s our concert!”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “When does the concert start?”

“This is it! This is our concert! OUR CONCERT!”

“So this big pile of stuff in your room is the concert?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to clean the concert up?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When we’re done with the concert.”

“Is the concert over now?”

“Yes.”

I left.

I still don’t understand.

And instead of hearing the concert being cleaned up, I hear things being added to the concert.

“Owen! There’s another blanket! Put it in the concert!”

“Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to be always and forever explaining things to them.” —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Changing Love

This weekend Andy and I had a night out to ourselves—Troy’s Cafe, a movie, 21c Museum Hotel Cocktail Terrace (with many thanks to my parents).

The day of I was upstairs, taking my time getting dressed. Sophie was in her bedroom, singing a song while moving her princess dolls around her room in serious play. Andy was downstairs with Owen and James.

The strappy blouse I chose to wear had a tiny, fabric-covered button that went through a tiny loop in the back. Because of its location, I’m unable to button it myself. I was just about to holler down to Andy for help when I heard Sophie attempt a high note in her song.

“Sophie?” I called.

She stopped singing. “Yes?”

“Can you help me with something?”

She came into my bedroom.

I explained to her what needed to be done, asked if she could help. I felt her fumbling through the pleats and ruffles of the blouse. I reached back, feeling for the impossibly small button.

“Here,” I said. “This is the button.”

I reached some more.

“And this is the loop it needs to go through.”

“OK,” she said.

She pulled the two sides together, tight. And then I felt them soften.

“Is that too tight?” she asked, with concern.

“No,” I said. “It’s supposed to be like that.”

She pulled again. I helped. I could feel her tiny, soft fingers on my bare back, grabbing for the button, reaching for the loop.

“There!” she said, pleased with herself. I expected the blouse to come slack again. I expected failure. But it remained tight. She accomplished the small task quicker than Andy ever had.

Sophie then took out a couple strands of my hair that had come caught underneath one of the straps. She fixed my bra straps on both sides, so the straps of my blouse covered them.

“There,” she said again. “That’s better.”

Changing love.

For five years I’ve been mothering this child. Her mothering me, if only for two minutes, was unexpected. She helped me do something I could not do alone. And then she threw in some acts of kindness, some brushes of love—she preened me and fretted over me, just like a mother often does.

For two minutes, our roles reversed.

Sometimes the smallest acts take up the largest amounts of time in my brain—during my early morning walks back from Sophie’s school, while stirring sauce in a pot, while in bed waiting for sleep to come.

This week I’ve found myself thinking about Sophie buttoning my date-night blouse often.

“And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.” —Joni Mitchell

James & Owen’s 1st Day of Preschool

I have a lot I want to write right now but it’s too much. I can’t put my thoughts together. Sometimes, three-year periods bear little change. Others start with you in the NICU with two little people who—combined—weigh less than your cat and end with you watching them walk down your front walk wearing backpacks.

This picture pretty much sums up the morning. James has just found out that we aren’t going to be in preschool with him (we thought this had been made clear much earlier—apparently not). Owen (who is usually our more timid child) is thrilled.

Check out their personalized handmade backpacks. Andy’s aunt Susan made them by request—contact her here if you’d like backpacks, totes, diaper bags, clothes—she can make anything. (The boys love their backpacks. Thanks again, Aunt Susan.)

At one point Owen clenched his fists and just stood on our porch shaking his arms—he was so excited.

James is (sort of) smiling here only because I was making an absolute fool of myself in our front yard, trying to get him excited/cheer him up.

We drove.

James cried.

“Preschool will be fun, James. OK?” Owen said over and over again.

At Country Hills Montessori (the same preschool Sophie went to—the one we fell in love with) we were supposed to kiss, hug and go. Owen knew what to do as soon as he walked through the doors—where to put his backpack, where to wash his hands … Sophie had talked through all these steps with both Owen and James all summer long.

Owen didn’t look back.

James clung.

“What should we do?” I asked one of the teachers, who was at his level, holding her arms out to him.

“Kiss, hug and go,” she said.

So we did.

After I peeled his fingers off my wrist.

We heard the sound of his cry all the long walk back to our van.

(Parenting can be hard.)

The first day was only an hour long.

I spent it at Fort Thomas Coffee, with a latte, coffee cake and a copy of Meg Wolitzer’s The Interestings.

I have long designated this future kid-free time as time to work on my freelance projects, excited about the possibility of not editing at midnight. But today, this first day, I designated this time as mine.

I didn’t read, though. I wondered if James was still crying. I uploaded Instagrammed first-day-of-preschool pictures to Facebook. I wondered if either had had an accident. I ate my coffee cake. I wondered if James was still crying.

And then it was time to pick them up.

Mrs. Richter gave me a thumbs up while helping load another set of twins into a mini van in front of me.

They had done well.

They came out, all smiles and waves, wearing the same clothes I had sent them in, excited to tell me everything—excited to go back.

I thought of the NICU, the times I kissed, hugged and had to go. How hard that was. How hard this was. And then how OK and, ultimately, good it all was, too.

The night before, my parents stopped by for a last summer hurrah—Coney Island, Skyline, Graeters. My mom gave me a gift—a beautiful Liberty print handkerchief, with hand-rolled and hand-sewn edges. (It has since seen some use.) And a card, with this written on it:

“Opie: Cage sure looks awful empty don’t it Pa?

Andy: Yes son, it sure does. But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”

My Eyes

I recently had a routine physical examination with Dr. Owen Uhl. As he was peering into my (dark brown) eyes with his toy ophthalmoscope he said, “Hmm. They’re a little bit chocolate-y. But that’s OK.”

“In nothing do men more nearly approach the gods than in giving health to men.” —Cicero

Sophie’s First Day of Kindergarten

She said she hardly slept but I know that’s not true. I know that, because I hardly slept and I checked on her several times throughout the night, catching her fast asleep in her bed and later, in the early hours of the morning, in our bed.

When she did wake she wanted to go.

“It’s not time,” I said. “It’s too early.”

“We’ll walk slow,” she said. “Really, really slow. I promise.”

I showered and dressed. She put on the outfit she had picked out the night before, the one we had gone shopping for the week prior, the one I actually took the time to iron last night.

Andy clasped a new necklace around her neck, one that Grandma had made. I clasped an identical one around my neck. I gave them to her the night before, and explained the idea behind a worry stone. She chose the pink heart to be her worry stone. She rubbed it.

“Do you think we might rub it at the exact same time tomorrow?” she asked.

“I bet so,” I said.

We read The Kissing Hand.

Back to this morning. After we had had our cereal, and as I was pouring my coffee into a thermal cup she said, “You’re going to take that with you, right?” The idea of sitting around waiting for me to drink a cup of coffee was just too much.

“Yes,” I said.

We took pictures on the front porch. Owen and James sung their goodbye song to her. And we started to walk.

She clutched my hand and skipped. And yelled “wa-hoo!” several times during our walk. I love her life wa-hoos.

Halfway through she stopped and reached for her necklace, but not for her worry stone—rather she reached for another, silver, charm. “This,” she said, “is our excited stone. It’s what we’ll rub when we’re excited.”

I squeezed her hand and smiled.

We continued to walk. More parents and children donning backpacks filled the sidewalks. The entrance to the school was packed with children, parents and siblings.

She ran into friends made during preschool.

The principal opened the doors. Everyone poured in. There were balloons everywhere. I was delighted to learn that, at least on this day, we were able to walk her directly to her room.

Sophie became more quiet, her mouth sometimes set in that butterfly mixture of anxiety and excitement.

We found her classroom.

Her desk and her name tag.

Her cubby.

I hugged her goodbye.

As I left, she was rubbing a stone. I don’t know which one.

Despite the thick fog, I put on my sunglasses. And breathed deeply. And wondered why I was so teary. I knew I would be a little teary, but honestly, I didn’t expect the need to constantly wipe my cheek the entire walk home.

Andy was completely perplexed by all this.

“It’s just the start of school,” he said.

But it’s more. It’s the start of something new. She’s part of something bigger now. Daily she’ll experience, learn, see and do things I won’t ever know about—as she should.

And part, I think, is that she’s now doing something I vividly remember doing. And I’m done doing that. And she’s just starting. I saw the look on her face, that butterfly mixture of emotions and remembered. Something about our walk to school together this morning really reinforced the cyclical nature of life and the life seasons so many of us are lucky to experience.

My tears this morning weren’t because I was sad that I wasn’t spending this morning—and many future mornings—with her. Rather they were from someplace deeper. That place is mostly filled with joy and gratitude. But pockets of sadness hide in the corners of that place, too. It’s a deeper sadness, something bigger than “I’ll miss you.” Rather it’s a sadness that what she’s experiencing in life right now I’ve already done. And someday, she’ll have done it, too. And while I’d much rather move forward versus go back, the finality of our life phases can weigh heavy at times. So I think about what Kahlil Gibran wrote, “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”

Now, I’m fine. Completely and totally (mostly) fine. And so excited to walk back to the school with Owen and James, pick her up, and ask her questions all the way home—or at least until she tires of me asking them.

Goodbyes, to people, to periods of time, are hard. But those goodbyes make the hellos even sweeter.

“The Universe is one great kindergarten for man. Everything that exists has brought with it its own peculiar lesson.” —Orison Swett Marden