I'm writing this from the hammock in our back yard--with wireless access!--and am feeling pretty decadent. Greg has fallen asleep on the bench on the patio, a book open and face down on his chest. Louie is keeping watch from under the bench. The kids are doing homework for tomorrow at the table inside the open door, the long weekend suddenly screeching to a halt as the realities of deadlines and assignments suddenly appear.  (School's not out until June 21st for us. Sigh.) We've made a pact to stay out here for as long as we can because once we go inside, the weekend's officially over.  Someone will want dinner or clean clothes or to talk about the 5872 things we have on the calendar this week as school slowly winds down with one recognition assembly/concert/game/event after another.

Yesterday afternoon, after church and naps, we decided on the spot to take a Sunday drive to Wingaersheek beach in Gloucester. We read out loud in the car up and back, flew a kite in the breeze and watched the sun set. I was so happy with our spontaneity.  And with the lovely, glowing light--the gloaming. Sometimes I look at these faces and am just smitten with motherlove.

And then sometimes, like today, we have silly + emotional showdowns in public at Subway over who owns a certain pair of earrings (+in the process the earrings end up on the floor and no one will pick them up) and the smitten-ness is tempered with a sprinkling of irritation and eye-rolling. It's a fickle pendulum, this mothering thing.  Just when you think you've got it right, you don't.

But still.  I'm dazzled. By who they are + are becoming, by my wide gaps in competence and my abundant weaknesses and occasional bursts of doing it alright, by the delicious aching laboratory these years are. Most of the time we are both kites and kiteflyers: we soar and swoop, rise and fall and we hold on to each other, hoping we all stay both aloft and anchored.  No wonder it's a tangle sometimes.