That first full week of school

she's back

Aug 23, 2024

This is the Kos newsletter: warm email notes from a friend. Finding the simple joy in parenthood, bodies, spirituality, creativity, and beauty. Sound like your jam? Subscribe below for notes a couple times a month.

The First Full Week of School

The first full week of school, shoes in a tangled mess by the front door, puddles of pants and inside out t-shirts on the wood floor. The house still, the kitchen sink less full. Old daisies sit in a vase cozied next to a bowl of rosemary, pink rose petals, lemon juice, and peppercorns—an afternoon concoction distilled sometime between bus drop-off and witching hour.

Home is where the heart is. It’s where we are. The kids are not, for now, but will be soon. I’ll keep it. I’ll keep it, still. Not kept but keeping; a sturdy home-making hum inside these walls. The plaster walls inhale on cue—a mad dash across the hall and down the stairs, back up then fly back to home base. Breath released at end of the day, fans dance while podcasts and white noise and humidifiers and parents' laughter play to sleepy ears.

Moving, moving, everything is alive and moving, even in the still small night. Look closer, an arm cradles a tattered Bear. Look closer, thick glasses tucked under a linen pillow. Look closer, the thump of city library books falling off one twin bed with every toss and turn. Look closer, the other twin bed empty—now two soft snorers cuddled together in soft brown cotton blankets.

Morning winks. Parents stir. Is it foggy, or is it clear? Beds aren’t made or teeth brushed but candle’s lit and oatmeal’s made. First one’s up already, all ready. Tall and pacing and thinking. “Did you take your pill?”, a hug, then water. One parent rouses the two tangled snorers, still warm and sweet and close, close, close. Yoto on, clothes on, window slightly opened. Everyone goes sleepy pee and mostly misses. Kitchen sounds wake the last sleeping head, a teenager now, blonde swooping hair mussed and groggy voice.

Dressed and oatmealed, chit chat about health and bosses and next levels winds its way from the kitchen nook to entryway to porch to sidewalk to concrete corner bus stop where neighborhood dogs sniff hello and kitty corner bus stop families wearily wave good morning. Backpacks of snack pack chips, water bottles, lone tissues, and Do you want to have a playdate? index cards. Thick school library books. Backpacks holding the backs of the people I fell asleep thinking about, worrying about. Loving.

Once upone a time, birthing—more pain than imaginable, holding our breaths until each had their first inhale. Feeding, changing, holding until the end of time, but there was no time. Only the ebb and flow of immediate needs and the faith that grace would help us grant them. Dressing them in impossibly small pointed hats and baby tights, nursing all hours of day and night, in a different house on a different corner, much smaller, but perfect. Are you milking your baby? You’re so fat but you will get less fat. Keep milking your baby, a neighbor helpfully offered.

Fat. Fatter than the fattest, if fat is fullness. If it’s happiness. If it’s joy. If it’s being big enough to hold it all while holding them, looking inside and seeing it’s all simply good because it is. Peering into dark corners and opening dank cupboards to air out and speak what is and call in the ocean breeze and highminded optimism and witchy oils and almighty power to sweep it clean and clear it out. To baptize this house, that marriage, those kids, my tired trying.

That first full week of school.

Kos

That first full week of school

she's back

The First Full Week of School

Discussion about this post