The observation deck at Henry j Cowell State Park

The kids and I hiked here on the last morning of our camping trip today. It was a long slog of complaints and fears and quibbles, and I'd even started trying to reach Chris, who was at the campsite packing our car, to see if he could somehow pick us up via the closest road, when things turned around. We each picked a certain number of complaints we'd allow ourselves and a certain number of positive expressions we'd aim for. Halina kept her numbers private but entered them on my phone. Luke chose 7 and 6 respectively. I chose 1 and 4. As you can see, we felt encouraged and empowered after that to enjoy ourselves and to hike back (which we did).

Before and after

Yeah that's the same space.

Thank you, Leslie. Thank you, Mom. 

There's more to the story. But I'll have to tell you later. Stay tuned.

This much...

Luke indicating how much more he likes Halina than me: an infinitesimal, yet meaningful, amount. 

And just a sweet little moment.

Happy Father's Day

Last day of drop off, last day of pickup

PIn the play yard, post drop-off, with Luke.

Last two days in Room 2

We've spent the last two years in Room 2. Her first day there, at an art summer camp before the school year started, Halina would not let me go and the art teacher had to pick her up and hold her in her arms while I walked out. That was the summer I started this blog. Now she can read. She can write stories. She can walk up the front steps to school (while I watch from the car) and punch in the code and go in. Now she's too tall to pick up and hold during a terrifying transition. Now she lets me go over and over again.

There are so many emotions around the end of a school year, which is also the end of Luke being 3 soon. And in this case it's the end of two years with the same teachers in the same room. It is the end of a routine, and even the rut-like and abrasive aspects of the routine now seem like treasured facets of a bejeweled life. "What was mine," as Ann Beatty's perfect book title puts it. Reflecting on that, almost gaping at your own inability to see.

And so it is with having kids, where you have so much heaven on earth to lose. And you must lose it.

But losing goes with gaining, so it's not so simple as all that, right? Earlier today I was remembering a moment I had after bringing a newborn Halna home from the hospital. We'd had the baby, named her, kind of learned nursing, filled out all the paperwork, put her in our new car seat that we 'd had professionally installed, and arrived home . Now what? Oh my god, this is forever. It was one of the most deeply uncomfortable feelings I've ever felt in my life. I don't say that to be cute. I don't exaggerate. It was a great blue whale of a feeling passing slowly beneath, like in an ocean on the other side of the earth, dragging on my solar plexus. My fingers were numbed. My head was dumb with fear. I could feel my heart beating far away. I didn't think I could stand it, certain it would last like this, unbearable and present, for all the moments to come. But it passed and here we can cut to immeasurable, unforeseeable bounty and infinite true-to-themselves nows. And it's all still lovingly connected to that first terrible encounter with immense vulnerability. 

Halina signing in today for one of the last times in Room 2.

Luke's an owl now

Luke finished his first year of preschool yesterday. He took part in a ceremony that officially retired his first-year "turtle" identity and celebrated his new "owl" status. Then we all sang "mcpc's over now....it's time to say goodbye." Which it is for the summer -- and for families going off to kindergarten, it is forever. Lots of older kids are staying a third year for bridge k. We probably won't. I'll be crying my eyes out at this time next year.