I’ll be back before too long
In this already crazy three-kids-with-(almost)-three-different-sets-of-activities life, last Thursday night was DEFCON levels of crazy.
I was perspiring at 21-Day Fix workout DVD levels from the exertion of literally sprinting from Noah’s basketball tryouts down the block to Rosie’s piano lesson and back, then getting a text from Luke that he’s stuck in traffic and won’t get to Max in time for pickup and then racing across town in rush hour traffic to get him before the school closed (me out loud in my car while actively blocking a honking car from turning into McDonalds so I could make the light that had just turned green: “SORRY ‘BOUT YOUR CHEESEBURGER, BUT I’M MAKING THIS LIGHT.”) and blazing back to tryouts as Rosie’s piano teacher texts to say they’re done and then dashing over to get her with Max at my heels and then the three of us stumble-running back just in time to slump exhausted into the hot and crowded stands full of parents to watch Noah take his turn in front of the coaches.
(He nailed it.)
Finally, after the height of the hullabaloo was done, it was 6:20 p.m., and we were all sweaty and starving. Conceding defeat in both the homemade dinner plans I had (hahahahaaaaa) and any thoughts of getting Noah to soccer practice after his tryout (WHY), I left Noah at the rec center to hang with his basketball buddies and loaded Rosie and Max in the car to cut a familiar path through the neighborhood Chick-Fil-A drive thru.
As the three of us sat in the colossal line (with my gas light on, because OF COURSE) in the dark mist under the fluorescent fast food sign, Rosie started to sing. Then Max joined in, and so did I. All of a sudden, I’ll be doggoned if we weren’t having a moment in the middle of that paper-strewn, crumb-filled car, right in the middle of our hurried harriedness and too-busy business.
Rosie, high on her newfound ability to keep the melody in songs when I sing harmony, took the lead with gusto, with happy Max as her plaintive-voiced backup. We sang verse after verse of “Go Tell Aunt Rhody,” the lullaby version from a CD given to me as a gift just before Rosie was born, botching the lyrics and singing whatever words came out.
Know I adore you
Know I adore you
Know I adore you
And I’ll be back before too long
The gas got us all the way home. Luke was there to greet us at the door. We tromped through the house to the kitchen, found our chairs at the table, and sat down to eat our dinner, together.
I don’t get to this place any more. And by this place, I mean here on this blog, where I’ve come so many times before. I hang on to the hope that I’ll find a new groove someday that includes Yestertime. Ironically, now that I’m making a living writing, I can’t seem to find time to write about living. It’s not a sad thing, it’s just how it is for now. I still pinch myself, a year and a half after taking the leap to freelance writing, grateful that I seem to have found the rhythm of life that works for me and for us. (Even when that rhythm is frenetic and filled with drive-thru fries.)
I’ll keep paying for this domain. Hang on to the stories of the past and leave room for stories to come. I can’t not. I love this life too much not to write it down. I love it so much sometimes that it makes my chest swell like a wave about to crest. Like a bubble poised to burst. Like a balloon filled with too much helium, rising above the street lamps, headed straight for the moon.