Sometimes things bloom when I’m not paying attention.

I like to think I’m creating a tradition, marking their memories of summer with ice cream, so they too can reminisce over the flavors we create, and recall the joy of licking the last bit of ice cream out of the bottom of a container.

When my husband traveled, sometimes for a week or so at a time, I’d forget about that faded black mailbox out front. I knew what would be there waiting for me- coupons I’d forget to use that would eventually go into the recycling bin. The latest ads from the grocery store, which I thought was a huge waste of paper, also going in the recycling bin. Bills to mark for payment and tack up on the bulletin board. Maybe a National Geographic subscription for the kids if it was nearing the beginning of the month. But really, nothing of urgency that couldn’t wait patiently in the mailbox for my husband to grab when he came home from work in a few days. Or a week. Apologies to the mail delivery person for crowding up the box. I do appreciate you. I just don’t appreciate all the junk.

I had high hopes for this quarantine business. Not having to go anywhere or have our time dictated by outside commitments and extracurricular, I knew I could fill it with fun and exciting things to do at home. The opportunity to have all three of my kids home at once to learn and play was exhilarating. We were going to soar.

I grasp for something witty and inspiring and cute and not too silly for this girl at the top of the hill, something that will glean a positive reaction from my daughter and allow us to bond. I weigh phrases in my head, probably overthinking the impact of any words I might suggest. “I don’t know,” I finally say. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” 

Over dinner we watched a YouTube video on how to assemble the pieces. The male and female volunteers looked like average parents, inserting poles here and there, clicking things into place. At super speed (literally, the video sped up because who wants to watch someone hook spring after spring after spring after spring) the trampoline was assembled, and the safety net put on. It looked simple. Basic. Step-by-step attainable. Husband and I both hold college degrees. Surely we can assemble a giant trampoline.

My family met a Pomeranian the other day, a small dog with pointed ears and the softest fur. My children pet her while the owner looked on in pride. I must admit, it was fluffy and cute and everything a young girl would want in a dog. My nine-year-old daughter looked up at me with wide blue eyes: “When can we get a puppy?”

I already know my answer.

We’re weathering out this season in our own way, growing and nurturing each other quietly, until the season changes and we’re able to burst forth.

Putting things in order has been my preferred method to anchor myself in the chaos.

Anyway, I'm a mom with a minivan now. Do I feel large and frumpy and inelegant on the road? You bet. Do I tower over the other cars and give them haughty looks when they try to merge into my lane? Nope. Will I happily trade it in for something completely different when the kids are grown? Absolutely. But do I love those sliding doors and not having to be blamed for the paint scratches on the cars next to us? Indeed I do.

So I'm going to reset my timer, be more intentional about sitting down and pounding out a few random words on these trusty old keys, and hope to grow my writing muscle. Who knows, maybe this will actually turn into something. In the meantime I'm joining the bandwagon to make blogging cool again.