Eight weeks

I heard my son tell his cousin last night on the phone, “Just a few more school days for me and then I’ll be in California.” The concept of time remains elusive. A few more days, a few more weeks, two more months—who’s counting? I guess he is. Sort of.

They are working on some sort of scheme that involves multiple Speed Racer tracks. They talk every few days on the phone, comparing, competing, “I have 75 Speed Racer cars,” my nephew says. And in a way that betrays his innocence, my son replies, “I have 3,” as though 3 somehow trumps 75. Then to my surprise, my nephew admits, “I have 4, but that’s still more than you, so that means I’m older, right?” (he’s not) and then they are on to the logistics of transporting a five foot track with side by side loop de loops across the country in one piece.

“Tell your mom to get a box,” my world weary and street smart nephew advises when my son declares the impossibility.

I love to eavesdrop on these conversations. Little boys trading ideas, working things out. Endless plans, few of which will ever come to pass.

Last summer it was The Sleepover, which lasted all of ten minutes before they insisted on separate rooms and closed doors.

I wonder what it will be this summer?

 

12 weeks and counting

Saturday we opened the upstairs windows and let the warm breeze wash winter out of our rooms. It was a beautiful day and I noticed the creamy paper-thin daffodils had bloomed in the front yard and the tight curled up flowers on the dogwood—like a fist—ready to open and stretch wide with the next burst of warmth.

In just 12 weeks we will be heading to the west coast to spend the summer in the golden light of the California sun. It seems at once close, and yet, still, too far away to prepare for. Spring has been, afterall, shy this year. Saturday’s warmth was followed by a chill on Sunday. Today, in fact, is cloudy and cool—cold enough for the heat to come up, even though I’ve set the thermostat back down to 62 degrees.

Twelve weeks seems like the right amount of time to tie things up, take care of loose ends, and get ready for our trip. I feel myself coming to the end of my novel. 53,186 words. I don’t know how many more chapters or pages or paragraphs will come before the final period, but I know how and where I want the story to end and I’m pretty sure I can figure out how to get there.

I am making progress, too, on finding someone kind and caring to work with my son while we are in LA. I had talked about hiring a reading tutor, but a friend has wisely introduced me to the idea of an educational therapist. I like the way it sounds. Educational therapy. Yes, I think, that is precisely what we need. Keep your fingers crossed that we can scoot past scheduling issues and the tight timeline to find ourselves in capable hands. In the meantime, my son is now earning money, not just for doing his vision therapy, but also for recognizing sight words. The loose change is adding up, and so far, there’s been very little resistance on his part to doing the extra work. This morning, he even volunteered to read a book to his furry faux pet Fudge (yes, the name is sticking, for now).

I am nearly to the end of Jennifer Graf Groneberg’s lovely memoir, Roadmap to Holland. In the section I read this morning, Jennifer writes about a visit from her father not long after her twins were born. She writes too, about her mother—branches on the family tree. “A single silver thread holds us together, the thread of memory.”

I know the thread that Jennifer is writing about. And it’s strong. My own father has been gone for 13 years, but he is still a part of what pulls me west. I see him sometimes in the movements and mannerisms of my son. And my mother. I see her clearly in my mind’s eye, calling our family home.

Twelve weeks and counting. I can already feel the sun on my face.

 

17 weeks

Last summer, my son and I spent four weeks visiting my family in Southern California. We swam, we ate, we played, we shopped, we embraced the moment and we had an amazing time.

We put therapy on the back burner and pushed aside our worries about school. We basked in the warmth of the sun and that golden California light, and we relished our time with family and friends. When it was time to come home, we were sad to see it end, but we were ready.

This summer we’re going back. The day after school lets out here in Mayberry. And we’re staying for six weeks.

When I think about this trip, about giving my son the opportunity to connect with our big extended family and family of friends, I am grateful for the blessings in our lives. I am overwhelmed by how truly lucky we are to have a home to go to, family and friends to welcome us, and the time and the means to make the trip.

I left home a long time ago, and I have not once regretted it. But on the days when I dwell on the lonely only-ness of my son, I simply cannot wait to gather his clan, plan sleepovers with his most special cousin, and bask in the warm embrace of our people and their kids.

This bi-coastal life—for as long as we are able to sustain it—gives us all that and more. It offers us the best of both worlds. A chance to step in and step out. To do it all in bits and then come back and do it again.

Though the trees outside my window are bare and the ground is frozen, there are just 17 weeks between here and LA. Soon spring. Then summer.

Our countdown has begun.