Sixteen years ago today I was waiting to give birth to my first baby.  Today, I’m waiting for that baby to take her first SATs.  The words of my grandmother ring loudly in my ears, reminding me of how fast the time goes.

I always thought that was old people just complaining, whining about missed opportunities and broken promises.  I wondered if they wished they had done life differently, had spent more time pushing their kids in the swing or reading them bedtime stories.  I briefly considered how that would feel, and tucked it away inside that long list of things I would never do as a parent, a list carefully created over years of trying to correct other parents mistakes that ended up in my classroom.

She was probably in her eighties when I started noticing the pain in her voice as she recalled her glory days of pigtails, freshly ironed short pants and dinners around the oval oak dinner table.  Most vestiges of her children were long ago relics of days she cherished, only the occasional tear in her eye as evidence of when she felt truly happy.

Sixteen years ago, I was not thinking of the memories that would be building from the moment she was born; I was thinking of how strong I could be to make it through the labor, and not much else.  I worried about how life would change and could I do all the right mommy moves to make sure she was safe, nourished, and nurtured.  Never did I think this far into the future that she would be walking out of my car and working towards leaving me.

As I sit here, watching car after car pull in, I tense as the clock ticks towards the starting time.  Kids continue to pour in even after they have no hope of admission through the testing door.  I watch them come back, rejected, and notice a mom not willing to take no for an answer.  Her son protests as she resolutely marches him back in, determined to give him another chance.  Minutes later when she returns alone, I see love etched into every fiber of her face; the kind of strength it sometimes takes to be a parent.

Sixteen years ago, I had no idea what it would take to be a parent.  I knew it was something I wanted for my life, not understanding the determination, dedication and sheer will it would take.  I didn’t understand why it would be so hard to watch her ride off on her bike alone, to let go of her hand at the corner of the school building, or let her take over the car steering wheel.  I did not imagine the pain of watching her cry or struggle through friendships that had ended or defeats on the ski hill.  I didn’t comprehend the many, many hours I would lose sleep to hold her tight, rock her gently, or support her through the different phases of growing up.

Sixteen years ago I never imagined the tests my baby would put me through, or how she would help me grow into a better human.  When she walks back to me today I will welcome her with the swirls of my grandmother’s voice running through my head, and realize that what she said really is true:  they do grow up so fast, and the years pass by far too quickly.  I will lock this memory into my mind, knowing all too well that when she finishes this test, another will present itself, challenging me to dig deep and take it on.

Some days it feels like weeds are overtaking my life.  Those dreary March and April days spent looking out my window made me ache to smush my hands in the dirt, prune back the overgrown branches, and clear out winter’s accumulated debris.  It’s not very beautiful out there.

Now that the sun is shining and I’ve had a few solid weekends in the garden, I’m questioning my eagerness.  Everywhere I go, I encounter weeds.  The unwanted stuff, the clutter, the dead relationships and outgrown friendships bog up my mind and consume my free space.  It’s not very beautiful in here.

They creep up next to the stepping stone, through the sprinkler heads, and crowd my lavender bushes.  They sneak next to the day lilies, snake their way up the Japanese maple’s tender stems, and root themselves firmly and cleverly amidst the heirloom roses.  They consume my free time, crowd my in box and rest on empty spaces.

Depending on my mood, I pull, or dig, or bust out the sprays when I just can’t get a handle on them.  Some days I carefully unwind them, desperate to leave the host unharmed.  Other days, lack of patience gets the best of me, and I curse and yank, decimating both simultaneously.

As I’m down on my knees, I occasionally upend an earthworm and send him wiggling back into the soil, or startle a mourning dove feasting on scattered seed.  Sometimes I unearth a new bloom, resilient from the winter’s frost.  Or an abandoned baseball, leather long gone.  Sometimes I close my eyes and breathe in and out, searching for an answer.

Plowing through the weeds gives me time to think, to meditate, to wonder about what might emerge next.  I strategize, sensitize, and surrender to what is yet to come.  Sometimes I just sink.

Pushing through winter’s debris to uncover, to create some breathing room, I sense an opening, a space for clarity.  I see progress, I sense some control.  I inhale, exhale, and look around me.  Blooms, new growth, and possibility are in sight.

Just for today, a little bit of beauty, made by me.

I woke up and realized it was actually spring.  Well, sort of.  According to the calendar, according to the blooms, according to the upcoming switch to Daylight Savings Time, that is.  According to me, it feels like I’m still stuck in the darkness of winter.  It has my brain and body scrambled and in a state of constant confusion.

At my day job, I’m teaching kids what they need to know now and telling them how to prepare for the future.  I’m scrambling to complete all my school year expectations while planning for the next crop of students to arrive in late August.

My weekday central California mornings are just above freezing, but steadily warm during the day.  My Sierra weekend mornings are far below freezing, but eventually warm and turn the snow to slush.

In the morning I want to turn on the heat, but know in the afternoon I will want to throw open the windows.  I wear a wool coat to work, but strip down to a single layer by noon.

I’m washing woolen ski socks, fleece long underwear and baseball uniforms in the same load.  I have a baseball bag on one seat of the car, and a ski bag on the other.

Hot, steaming coffee brings me into the day, and cool diet Pepsi keeps me going into the dark.

The weather report calls for sunny days this weekend and rainy days next week.  The trees are blooming, partway.

At home, my son is growing out of sixth grade and growing excited about moving to the junior high school.  My daughter is planning for junior year classes to prepare her for college admissions.

I feel like I’m half way there, too.  Balancing between two jobs, two lives, two of everything and never quite whole of either.  Sometimes blooming, sometimes dormant.

And I’m all mixed up.  Some days it feels like the best I can do is just make it to bedtime in one piece.  On others, I have the energy to take on the world and then some.

Do you feel it, too?  Is it a schizophrenic spring in your world, or am I the only crazy one?

He stands on the edge

of

childhood

open wide

ready

to embrace the world

He balances between

me

and

them

ready

to let go

He straddles the vastness

of

the majestic Sierra

and the confines

of the salty shore

ready

to move forward

Confident

Certain

Shouting

“I am strong”

to the Paiutes who came before

and

they believed him

He can hang from trees, climb rocks, take down an intruder
and
fly down a ski course.

He can run fast and think hard.

This is how I see my son:
Gentle.
Intelligent.
Fearless.

He can snuggle his dog, play the piano, help a stranger
and
make lemon pasta.

He can think fast and run hard.

He is still a little boy, yet almost a little man.

Change is hard.
Fascinating.
Frustrating.
Beautiful.