The Lord your God…turned the curse into a blessing for you, because the Lord your God loves you. —some old dude named Moses (Deut. 23:5)

I take a spin class about once a week, usually led by an instructor who knows The Kid’s name and rocks out to 90’s music on the reg. One of the expressions used among indoor cyclists is “from your flat” and refers to the amount of resistance at which you’re riding. On my gym’s bikes, this is a number on the lower left of an info panel that, on bad days, I use to measure my worth in the world. The notion is that flat is an easy ride devoid of resistance or incline.

Most of the duration of the class does not occur at my flat.

And so it is with life. When I think back over my thirty-five years, I consider what my flat would be. Was it when I was eight, reading books at the kitchen table? (The Mom made me eat broccoli, though. And I didn’t yet appreciate The Dad’s sense of humor, which led to some tense meals.) Was it when I was sixteen and newly licensed to drive? (No boys were calling. And the zits just would not go away.) Was it during college, when I chose my bedtime and drinking buddies? (Three-hour labs sucked.) Was it my mid-twenties, when I made like Samantha from Sex and the City and was all, “Intimacy schmintimacy, let me find meaning in rebellion!” (Ever had a cervical biopsy? Or made room in your bag for a steady stream of Advil and regret?) Was it my Manhattan-filled early thirties, when I found grace and The Husband and a city big enough for my questions? (Close. But there was that annoying and perpetual lack of funds. And the subway smell.)

I’m thinking that my flat was my honeymoon, on the island of St. Lucia with a flag that signaled more drinks and TH beside me. Then there was the part where we had to get on a plane and start real life.

It’s no secret around here that pregnancy and the infancy phase were a bit of a personal hell for me, if I may be permitted to indulge my dramatic side. And as TH and TK and I have reached a relative period of detente (except when TK throws his sippy on the floor and I begin to think that things may not work out between us), we consider what a family of four would look like. Is there a good time to approach that addition? (“No.” –Wine and Retinol Cream.) Despite 5:45 am work wake-up calls and craptastic diapers and aforementioned unacceptable Mom’s Bistro behavior, I find that my flat has been adjusted. Friday afternoon, the sun was out and the temperature mild and I threw TK on one hip, a blanket and toys and magazine on the other, and spent AN HOUR in the yard reading People and being a mom SIMULTANEOUSLY, with no casualties. I remember a year ago, when fifteen minutes outside would have been a feat and People would have been replaced with spit-up. We’ve finally found our moment in the sun, physical therapy and boob scares and neck issues and looming MRIs notwithstanding. Or maybe…not notwithstanding?

Because flats change. During my yesteryear runs in Central Park (definitely no longer my flat), I used to dread a slight incline on the east side of the reservoir. Then one day I ran until it was behind me–and Heartbreak Hill loomed ahead. After that day, the incline was a blip, and I had a new flat. The Baby-sitting Cousin, who just started a painfully early teaching job, discussed with me recently the way our bodies adjust to what is asked of/demanded from them. And my friend CC, who just popped out her second, is singing the praises of how much easier Kid: The Sequel is. Admittedly helped by the fact that at this point, you already know your old life is over–and that every tough part is just for a season.

Speaking of seasons, ain’t spring a fine one? And I would never, ever love it as much as I do were it not for the bitchery of winter. I remember when the first restaurant in New York would begin setting tables outside; an act just as much an anthem of glory as a finger to the cold. When I turn the TV to the classical music station now, TK looks up (sometimes throwing his cup across the room) and stares, listening. When I did that during his newborn phase, his cries made a mockery of my attempt at peace. Friday afternoons are cocktails on the patio. Twelve-and-a-half sleeping sessions are the norm. Laughter is rampant.

And then there is my grandmother, whose current flat is a decline in a nursing home, a face that remains blank when The Sis and I approach. The Mom’s flat is a daily uphill battle against dementia, repeated conversations not rooted in reality. We don’t have to choose the scenes of our own martyrdom–they find us. But as the ring my grandmother no longer remembers giving me encircles my finger, I know that life is not only found on easy roads; that flats may be for quitters after all; but that what encircles and holds us and identifies us with each other is greater than comfort or appearance or coasting. Grace is what gives us new flats, however resistant they, and we, are. Grace takes the uphill–the struggle–the dailiness of it all–and breathes life into right where we stand.