They found the coloured chalk in the cupboard, and like some magic talisman they’ve waved these sticks and made artistic dust on our driveway.
We have officially entered birthday season: three in the next two months. Mine kind of sits at the end of the year; an ellipsis when it comes to the family sentence, in a way. When March rolls around, that’s when the ‘for my birthday…’ or ‘I want my cake to be…’ requests begin. It’s lovely, and exciting, and bittersweet – conflicting emotions one must bear, in waves, when it comes to parenting. Soon I will have an eight year old and a ten year old. Ten.
In the bathtub, Riley stretches out his legs in front of him and leans over to touch his toes.
“Look at how long my legs are!” he says. “I used to be able to do this easily, now I need to really stretch.”
When Keira walks a beam barefoot, I watch her steady gymnastic feet search and then plant; sinking into her weight on one foot she prepares for her next step, her muscles writhe and then settle, before she moves again. Assured, graceful.
Wonderful. The both of them. We’ve walked to school every day so far this year, in order to save money and get exercise. It’s been remarkable how quickly it became routine, and we walk along hand-in-hand chatting about nothing special and I know I’ll remember these days as being happy.
Because they are.
