Yesterday my son Jesús had oral surgery. He was the happiest patient you ever saw, until things got just a bit complicated and his pain was high as they finished their procedure. His mouth was still profusely bleeding as they moved us to the recovery space, tried to give me recovery pamphlets while I comforted him, my hands full of bloody gauze and paper towels. They asked me if I had any questions while I was wiping his tears and resetting his glasses. Then they kindly and professionally, though briskly and abruptly ushered us out the door. Standing in the lobby of the building, searching for keys and handing still dizzy Jesús his cane, holding bags of syringes and gauze, I was angry.

I buckled my son on the bus this morning. “Remember” I signed to him. “Remember Mom loves you.” He nodded and waved his hands back at me. I waved him down the driveway.

All week I have been reminding my children to remember as we wildly swing into the routine of September. Remember your backpack. Coat. Shoes. Oh my gosh your other shoes. Your lunch. Not his lunch. YOUR lunch. Remember the zoom time, your password. No, I don’t know your password. Why would I know your password?! Remember the book, your snack. Remember what day we’re on. The plan please.

“Remember last year?” one asked me. “We were way more organized.”

My 2 year old niece Em loves cheerios. She holds them so tightly in her little fist, because she loves them. She wants to eat them, but also doesn’t want to open her fist to expose them. She freezes, stuck in the impossible. How does she eat her favorite food, if she can’t get to her favorite food? And how does she keep her favorite food safe if she has to open her hand? So there she will stand, in the middle of my kitchen, looking at me for an answer. 

Addicts count days. My 9 year old daughter counts sheep. My 10 year old son counts to two. Then he starts over. One, two he says. One, two. Sometimes he will get all the way up to seven. For a while he could count to ten, but then the seizures happened and I don’t know what fritzed inside his brain. I picture it getting red and orange and now he counts to two again. On good days he knows that one means one and two means one and one more. On most days, he is just counting.

I count too. My son Jesús gets medication in the morning. He gets medication in the evening. Two different types of medication, two times a day. As the mother of a child with disabilities I cannot forget the medication. If I do, he will most certainly have a seizure. I cannot forget the medication. I absolutely cannot forget. As a mother. Also, and equally, as a human, I have forgotten his medication.

My sons Jesús (9) and Yan (7) ask each other if they are happy over 5 times an hour. Depending on how much language they have in those hours variations will include, “Zigadee happy? Cappy? Hoppy? Ese, esa, happy? Si appy?” They answer in call and response.  “Yes yes,” and return the question. Or “no no”. If the answer is no no, there is sighing, comforting and repeated asking if the other is happy now, or…now? 

A while ago I had to have a cyst removed on the back of my head. Besides me being fairly dramatic about making the phone call to schedule the procedure, the whole thing was not a big deal and the marble size bump was removed and my head stitched up with little fanfare. My long hair covered the wound and all was well. The doctor said I would have a small divot for a bit and I made the mistake of telling my kids. They were fascinated. Not by the procedure or my well-being of course, but that I could be walking around town with a "hole in my head" and, mostly, that no one knew.

When they left Connecticut in a car packed to the brim with the rest of what they owned, it was raining. It was raining in Tennessee when they slept under trees. It was lightning in Arkansas when they slept by the lake. It was finally sunny in Oklahoma, and then poured in New Mexico when at last they turned right and headed north instead of west. And then it was straight north for hundreds of miles and backtrack a little east until they almost hit the cold northern waters of Superior. They went over the bridge, through the town, beyond the fields and took a right on Red Pine and drove up our driveway- then they stopped. And they got out. And they are here.

5:54 in the morning and it is still dark. The way to know that summer is ending is to feel the dark fold up on each side of the day. And soon, we know it the way the birds know it, this season will turn right over to the next. Time has settled into a pattern of waking, feeding, playing, loving. I’ve been saying the not-new-revelation all summer. This summer — the one where we have spent over ten nights in tents and at least thirty hours in canoes — is going fast. 

Last night we received a dusting of snow. I woke up in the middle of the night and could see the giant pine trees being iced gently with white.  My 4 year old wandered bare foot into the kitchen at 6:30 a.m. this morning and he looked wide eyed out at the snow. “Mom” he said in total seriousness. “I think I have to go outside right now.” I told him to do what he needed to do.  Because if you ever feel as if you need to be out in creation right now — this second — you should be. So he put on his shoes and put his hands in his pockets and walked around our yard. Touching the snow with his bare hand. Kicking it with his sneakered feet. He gazed at the cornfield and looked for deer. He was completely content in the now. It wasn’t until his ears were icy and his cheeks were red that he came up towards the garage.

Joey is going to kindergarten tomorrow. He’s pretty pumped. For Joey “pretty pumped” means putting his thumbs in his jeans pocket and rocking forward on the balls of feet saying real calmly, “Yeah, I think I’m excited, Mom. Yeah.”