The new year came like a mirror dream; slow and unsure, woolly. It came as though moving through some sacred liminal space, off balance, and not yet sure if it is stepping in the energy of before or the energy of yet to be. The kids got sick in the myriad and sundry ways that children get sick. We went up the coast to the beach, and for a moment I played with Stella and we rolled about in the waves and thought only about waves and water and salt in our mouthes. I poured “tea”with Lyra and delighted in the tea that was there only in mind, and we were together, really together for an instant. Or perhaps five. Or perhaps longer. I swam with Hugo and answered his call to “do that funny thing again” as though he wanted desperately to relive an ephemeral joy again and agin and agin. Then I had to pull them away from the pool, give them showers, make them stop running through the restaurant , worry about illness and behaviour, and the dumb stupid, you’re so stupid dumb, MOOOOM HE CALLE DME STUPID, and it all boils down to that fearful question, if my mothering is the right kind of mothering.
I made plans and goals and dreamed a bit. I intended to do work, but forgot my hard drive at home. So instead I took naps, read books, and went early to bed and slept with Lyra’s feet in my ribs and on my face. And it sometimes felt great. And it sometimes felt too much. And I wonder what my word for the year should be, and maybe it’s everything is perfect. And maybe it’s just love. Because everything is perfect, and everything is love.