When I woke up this morning and pulled back the curtains, I was greeted by a cloudless sky. Belgium is notoriously gray and drizzly (think London or Seattle), so when the sky is clear and the sun rules the day, it’s like a benediction. You tilt your chin skyward, inhale deeply, and count your blessings on those rare mornings that don’t require a windbreaker or an umbrella.

My blond-haired blessings were tucked in their beds under the piney eaves of the house. Emily under her pastel quilt, a garden of carpet flowers and butterflies dotting the floor of her room and piles of clothes and baby dolls in every corner. Andrew, wrapped in a blue and green cocoon of flannel, waiting to emerge and read the Archie comic books piled on his bed. Emily wakes up when I put the cat on her chest and is eager to put on her frilly skort and brand new sneakers. Andrew is coaxed out from under the covers when I sing him a silly rhyming song, composed on the spot to entertain and delight him and keep morning crabbiness at bay. The song is accompanied by much tickling, snorting, snuffling, and rabid kissing. He laughs and laughs, much like the toddler I used to lift from a crib in the apple green room in Virginia.

I have carefully packed their backpacks and checked my lists, but I haven’t checked my heart. I’m surprised to find myself sad behind the jovial façade I wear for the children. I’m a veteran of the back-to-school process, I’d been looking forward to this day, and so I’m caught off-guard by my regret as I fix them breakfast, supervise tooth brushing, tame Andrew’s cowlicks, and walk them out the door.

I will miss their laughter bubbling down the stairs, the way they eagerly call to each other all day, the plaintive shouts of “Mama!” which remind me that I’m needed and loved. My freedom has its own intoxications—quiet time, morning walks, less housework, more writing—but love and responsibility feed the soul.

From the moment the umbilical cord is cut, we begin a dance of holding on and letting go, running to and away from each other, feeling smothered or joy-filled with each embrace. Today I feel I’m dancing with two left feet, a little off-balance, out of time with the music.

I won’t cry today. I’ll thank God for the sun that anoints us and never falters in its daily dance, reminding us that eternal things don’t change, that today as always, we carry one another in our hearts.

August 29, 2005