My husband had a card and a chocolate bar infused with espresso beans waiting for me when we all piled into the car this morning. The card was beautiful, kind, romantic, and just as I began to choke up, I came to his signature. In big bold letters he announced Thank You for Being Born! Love Vinnie.

Thus comic relief triumphed over a moment of emotional gushiness.

And so began another year of my life. Three kids all heaped into a dented mini-van and a tour of simple pleasures. Lunch at a small locally owned pie shop. A trip to pick up inexpensive serving bowls & some new picture frames. Make-your-own-Sundaes at a one of a kind ice cream parlor.

Playing catch as a family at the park down the street. We did nothing glamorous. We did nothing terribly expensive or out of the ordinary. The children weren’t angelic, we had time outs and diapers to change and dinner to cook (and clean up after) – and yet, the entire day felt magical.

The end of summer is always reflective for me and more so this year than ever. I remember writing the post on my previous blog the day that I turned 28. Then 29. Now, today, 31. I remember writing about The Boss when he was my one and only – when he wouldn’t let himself settle into sleep – when I sang him Jingle Bells as his six month old legs dangled to my waist in mid-July.

I remember writing of my daughter’s birth, of the days leading up to her arrival. How long and endless pregnancy seems when you’re due. How is it possible that she is not only no longer an infant, but no longer this sweet faced toddler?

How quickly the pages turn and here we are:

He starts kindergarten in less than two weeks. How do I start the process of letting go when it feels like I’ve only just begun holding him?

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