the last of the milk

there is less than half of a half gallon of almond milk in my fridge right now, just enough milk to get us through breakfast. this is my great triumph this week. when planning through life's transitions, it s a delicate balance to make the milk last right up until the last minute without running out too early or needing to buy more too soon. I have succeeded.

and it's not just the milk victory that deserves to be celebrated this morning. there's the glorious sunrise that greeted me on our last morning here. there's penelope sitting in the driveway more than halfway packed. there's a boy on the couch reading to himself. there is a reunion with maeve and then a reunion with eric to look forward to this afternoon. but mostly just making it to today has me cheering the loudest.

we leave shelter island today. we're about two weeks ahead of our planned departure date, and of course I have a lot of different feeling about that. leaving now means not seeing people I have put off visiting al summer because time would be so much looser in our last two weeks. it means walking away from the planning for next summer, one of the things I love very best. it means leaving after a week of parenting on my own which leaves little space for leisurely sunsets and moments of reflection and contemplation. it means a slightly frazzled version of a packed car, one I am sure eric will undo and try to remedy in a parking lot somewhere this evening.  but here we are, and here we go, and that is that.

end of camp can be my favorite. I like the process of looking back and looking forward, making sense of what worked and what didn't, cleaning out the dregs of summer supplies and lost and found. because it was just me with kids this week after the rest of the staff left, mostly it meant kid-friendly activities during the day and then lots of late night conversations with phil. I am not good at late nights. I would do everything I could think of to wear those kids out during the day. they are both official bike riders now (all this flat, paved space did the trick), but we only have one functional bike between them, so two of us would chase the one on the bike through camp while the one on foot would whine about it being their turn already. I played soccer with them. like actual run up and down the field and kick the ball soccer. maybe this is normal behavior for other parents, but if you've known me longer than about thirty seconds you know that things that require coordination while running aren't really my strong suit. 

and we started school this week, too. it is good. it just fits and makes sense and kids dig it and thank goodness for all those things. 

and then the packing. eric does the packing in our household and he takes great pride in this role. doing it on my own this week, fitting our life for the past three months in to our little honda fit while making sure to leave room for five passengers is not easy. did I mention the camping gear that has to fit on top or the lego creations that are oh-so-fragile or the shells and sea glass and who knows what else qualifies as treasure in cora's mind? everything I would pack, the kids would immediately need so we would unpack it and start over. everything I sorted into the give away pile was immediately discovered and reclaimed. but we are leaving anyway, and we'll figure it out as we go. isn't that the way the best adventures happen? isn't that just what we've always done?

my last moon flower bloomed this week. eric planted moonflower seeds back in march on the back deck of mudlfower and packed the seedlings for the trip up here (see what I mean? packing master.) and transplanted them here to vine around the deck. it is his love language. moonflowers reach all the way back to the beginning of our relationship, one of the first things he ever planted for me. I remember I smelled it before I even saw it that summer, and he has planted them just for me ever since. he saves the seeds every year. this year the beach soil was too sandy and the deck too sunny, so I only got four flowers through the summer, but I noticed the leaves instead: big heart-shaped reminders of where our roots should be.

so here we go. there are adventures to be had and hugs to be given and reflecting to do and soul cleansing to accomplish. but first, we're going to finish off the last of that milk.