You know what is worse than someone asking you when you are due when you aren’t? Your four year-old asking a stranger if there is a baby in her belly, when there clearly is not.
We carved pumpkins this past weekend. It’s the first time we’ve carved pumpkins since before kids. That means it has been at least six years, probably more. There’s a reason we haven’t carved pumpkins in a long time. I don’t like it. It is messy, gross, time-consuming, and only moderately fun. It does seem like a rite of childhood and I’m not a complete curmudgeon… not to mention Bigs has been asking about doing it since he took a field trip to the pumpkin patch.
It was early February 2012, my neighbor called mid-afternoon asking if I would mind if she dropped off a chicken pot pie. She was making one for her family’s dinner and had extra that didn’t freeze well. It was like manna from heaven and I graciously accepted. She knew Littles was brand new, but she had no idea the struggle I was in the midst of. For one night, I felt like a good mom, because my family had a hot, nutritious dinner.
It is not exactly a secret that this transition into fall and school and hockey season has been difficult. It’s life. A lot of life lately has felt like hanging by a thread, but at least a thread exists. And there is hope. Hope that we all will settle into our new normal. Hope that our schedule slows down. Hope that Bigs’ teacher stops sending two e-mails per day with reminders of things.
It was only six years ago that I would come home from work and curl up to watch TV or read and daydream of what the baby growing in my belly would be. I knew he would be perfect in every way and somehow that translated to an idyllic motherhood for myself. I knew he wouldn’t ever wear light up shoes and would always use his manners. Dreams.