It’s happening: we are on the cusp of spring here in Texas. The trees are blossoming and fluffy, green grass lines the highways, so much that I want to stop on the side of the road and roll in it like a cat would dirt. The air is getting warmer, thicker, and the bugs are beginning to buzz again. I can hardly wait.
I never liked spring when I lived in Colorado, which conjures images of wet, dirty snow. By March I was always ready for warmth and green and flowers, and somebody-please-take-me-to-the-beach, but I had to wait until May. It seemed that winter would never part.
I’m waiting on a few things these days. For one, a toilet. Our septic system is under construction, so for the past couple weeks we’ve been using a five-gallon bucket. And yes, we dig holes and bury things. It’s gross. My neighbor calls me the pioneer woman.
I’m waiting for this physics class Erik’s taking to be over with, because I might as well be taking it too. Most nights, after Sayla has gone to bed, we sit side by side at the kitchen table calculating equations. Of course I would rather be reading or watching Andy Griffith or playing the piano in my toddler-free time.
I’m also waiting for Sayla’s molars to come in so we can both start sleeping through the night. Teething is no joke. And, I’m waiting for her to look at me with those sweet blue/brown/hazel eyes and say “Mama!”
But the truth is, there will always be something I’m waiting for. Something to be better, or finished, or finally here. I hate to think that I’m always waiting for the next thing, to just get through the phase I’m in. Because the moments in life when all is well are rare, and almost eerie: like the calm before the storm.
We have a saying around here and it goes like this: “This is what memories are made of.” It’s the kind of thing you say when you sit down to a hearty meal with your family gathered round, or when you go on a morning walk, basking in golden light and breathing deep that damp, earthy smell. Or when you see your child’s face as she explores and fondles something new. It’s those small, ordinary moments that you one day look back on and your heart aches just a little.
One day, we will laugh about our five-gallon bucket (and never take a toilet for granted). One day, we will think fondly of our late-night physics dates. One day, Sayla will not stop talking with a mouth full of pearly whites, and I will sigh as I recall that one time when she only had a few teeth and babbled away.