This afternoon I sat at a table next to the school playground. The playground where both of my kids go to school, as of this Monday. I watched The Kid as he played ball with his class ahead of me, and I looked at the door to the kindergarten classroom, behind which Little Brother sat talking with his new teacher. And it was glorious.
It took awhile to get here, but here we are.
TK was laughing on the field ahead of me, talking to his friends and raising his hand to answer questions from the new teacher. Then LB emerged from the classroom grinning, with his teacher–who was also TK’s teacher in kindy–telling me how ready he is to start school.
I thought, while sitting at that table, about this scenario three years ago: how we were less than a month into our life in Sydney; how I was drinking a bit too much rosé every night; how The Husband and LB and I all tagged along for this meet-the-teacher moment with TK and how nervous TH and I were, wondering how he was doing in there–if he’d even speak to her. We were raw and tired and uncertain. Which are not bad things to be, actually–I’ve found they often describe me right before something wonderful happens.
We were supposed to be back in America now, three years later, but here we are. Sitting in the same spot, the same school, the same teachers. And it is wonderful.
It’s wonderful because it’s where we’re meant to be, right now. It’s wonderful even though I’m still anxious and there are still occasional nights when I have too much rosé. It’s wonderful even when I lose my shit with my kids and have to apologise. It’s wonderful even though I’m on the real estate website every day looking for another house, one that does not have stank carpet, and even though there are still people who piss me off and I’m still not a paragon of peace and adjustment. (Dammit, I forgot to meditate again today. That must be it.)
It’s wonderful because we’re here, and we’re together, which makes here home, and we’ve relearned, in the last few days, that life is short and people you never thought would disappear, do. It’s wonderful because, in the best moments–between impeachment coverage and celebrity deaths and sibling fights and smoke-filled air and all the other annoyances of life–it is full of wonder. I am.
Last week, the last full week of summer holidays, I took the boys to a birthday party at a waterslide park. I went down first with LB, and felt him tensing up the whole way down, proclaiming at the end that he didn’t like it and was DONE. Then I watched as TK came down on his own, grinning. We left early to get to a show in the city, meeting some friends for dinner in the brutal heat and sweating our asses off, then walking over to the theatre. LB alternated between watching the show and asking to leave, while TK and I stared, transfixed, at the magic occurring with light and air onstage.
Sometimes LB arrives places earlier; sometimes TK does; and often they both lead me to where we need to go. For three years we’ve been home, and we march ahead into another. They came out of the playroom the other day, announcing that they were taking an inventory of their toys: “We’re remembering them all,” they said. I felt the way I did in the theatre, at that table on the playground: full of wonder at the fact that I’m the one who gets to know them best for now–not always–but for now, each of my hands holding a sweaty little one. Wonderful.