I've been thinking a lot about the changing of seasons lately. It's not just the yellow leaves that catch Oliver's attention as we sit on the soccer sidelines that have me enraptured. It's the changes I see in my own family.
Each and every one of my children seem so palpably on the brink of something new and exciting right now. As the one who doles out the math assignments and reads over the essays, I am well aware of their burgeoning intellectual abilities. I have grinned inwardly as Logan has chosen to pick up a book a good two levels beyond what I require of him and tried to pry its secrets from the pages, syllable by syllable. I have seen Atticus take handwriting seriously for the first time, actually employing his eraser for something other than a holding spot for a fidget. I have listened to Jo describe a project in such detail that I have felt for the very first time in my heart that I have very little left to teach her in the way of book learning. And, on the toddler front, I have disbursed treats to Oliver each morning to celebrate his potty successes.
The seasons are changing, yet again.
Just when I get truly comfortable with basal readers, cloth diapers, multiplication tables, sloppy handwriting ... my kids go and change on me. They stretch me in new areas. They tax me and they thrill me and they need me in ways I thought I had left behind or have not yet discovered.
It is, of course, as it should be. There should be growth. Change. Development. To do otherwise would be to stagnate in the comfort zone labelled failure to thrive.
It is a good thing, this motherhood adventure. It is a life rich in adjectives like "loved," "quiet," "fast," "easy," "first," "long," "warm," "disastrous," "blushing," "weary," "strong," and "messy." It's an organism unto itself, I'm learning. Motherhood grows and changes. It sheds its foliage just when you feel you are full to bursting with the beauty of it all. And what you're left with is anticipation of the seasons yet to come.