begin again

The dress I wore to teach Sunday school is in the washing machine with a Spiderman costume that's covered in macaroni and cheese, because who has time for the gentle cycle?

We did not get the boys haircuts or new shoes.

Tucker walked to school by himself, last year's backpack slung over his shoulder and a skip in his step, the rest of us hollering whole-hearted goodbyes from the driveway.
Tolliver found friends on the lawn at the elementary and took off toward the front door before the bell rang, a big smile stretched across his freckled face.

Back to school reminds me, every year, that there's one missing. Like an annual test of my stoicism. As if a return to daily shared custody of her brothers isn't hard enough.
Sometimes it's too much. And by sometimes I mean often, but it's especially too much right now.

I remind myself that tomorrow is the next first day, the begin again.

Tucker has been gathering materials to decorate his locker, and staying up past bedtime to consider gravity and serious meta-physics with Andy, pondering the pages of a book they've been studying.
Tolliver is mourning the freedom of lazy summer days and pickup baseball games, but he's also making new friends and big plans for the playground, plus offering to help with dinner most evenings.
Hank misses his brothers, so we've baked and built a fort and designed marble tracks and played with small plastic sea creatures and read books.

It's not the new lunch boxes or the pressed shirts.
Maybe it is more about being gentle, making time.