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.” 

There are few things I know for sure. Only a few truths that resonate deep in my spirit. And this is one: if there is an occasion to buy a helium balloon, you better make sure you buy as many helium balloons as you have children. Don’t try to be thrifty. This is not a time to care about money. This is not a time to teach your children a lesson about sharing. If you want to be productive at anything at all in the next three days — buy each child a different colored helium balloon.

I stand in front of our van with two boys in winter coats and a girl in a snowsuit on my hip. I debate about which door to open first. I decide on the big sliding side door — passenger side. I instruct Joey to climb in and over Elena’s  car seat to get to his. He does this every day. Maybe a few times a day.