It’s 6:20 p.m. We just got home the reading tutor. It was an hour-long session, but traffic was hideous so we were gone for nearly two hours. Neither kid has finished their homework, practiced the drums, or taken a shower. No one has eaten dinner, and I have nothing planned or prepped to cook. The dog’s water bowl is empty again. The kids won’t have anything to wear to bed unless I fetch some wrinkled pajamas from the load of laundry that’s been sitting in the dryer for two days. Whatever is in the washer smells by now and will have to be rewashed. I have a dozen emails to return, a check to write for the PTO, and a claim to submit to our health insurance provider. We need flu shots, and if I don’t pay the gas bill online today (as in over an hour ago when it wasn’t yet 5:00 p.m.), it will be late. I haven’t gone through the mail in nearly a week, a tower of boxes in the garage need to be broken down for recycling pick-up first thing in the morning, and I need to text our soccer coach about bringing a team snack to the next game. Lunch boxes need to be unpacked and ice packs need to be refrozen, reading logs need to be signed, and the dishwasher needs to be emptied, so everything in the sink can be loaded. I owe my sister a phone call or at least a text (I can’t remember the last time we spoke), there are 25 voice messages on my cell phone, and I haven’t checked in with my writing group in several days.
It’s a typical day. We’ll never catch up. We’ll never get it all done. We’ll never get it all right. We’ve definitely passed the window to do math homework without a meltdown. We’ll wake up tomorrow and try again.
“Let’s go!” One by one, we spill into the backyard.
The boys jump, run, spin, and giggle on the trampoline. They rest their eyes that have been fixed on a screen, a workbook, or a smart board all day. They breathe fresh air. They marvel in the feeling of being weightless in the air, and they surprise themselves when they flip and land on their feet. I throw the ball for the dog. When she tires of that game, she races in circles underneath the trampoline barking and jumping to catch the feet she sees bouncing above her. Distracted by the fun and physical movement, the kids tell me snippets about their day. About the game they played at recess, the book they borrowed from the library, and the hopes and dreams they chose at school for the year ahead – to be strong and make new friends.
As the fall sun sets and the noise of cars on the road beyond our yard dwindles, we let the exhaustion, stress, and anxiety of the day evaporate into the cool air. Inside, there’s schoolwork, chores, and endless household tasks to be done before we go to sleep. They are important. But so is this. We will get back to work. But first, this. Our safe place. Our happy place. Our nothing else matters no matter how much we still have to do place. Our gathering space.