When I gave in to morning a few minutes ago, I left the sleepy world of dreams where Bill and I were both pregnant and Bill was experiencing morning sickness. 

I’m not a big dreamer nor do I normally remember the dreams I have; hence my trouncing out of bed at 4:30 to be rid of these.  I think the dictionary played a part in this, for the second definition of pregnant is “full of meaning; significant or suggestive.”  And that’s where we stand today, April 29, 2021.  After a strange melee of a year, I’m feeling more forward motion than spinning, and being so used to that spin, the forward motion is dizzying. 

Will’s last day of school is tomorrow; prom is tonight; the outdoor promenade is cancelled because of rain; Will needs to select a college by the end of the day May 1st.  And through all of these things, Will is the main actor as my supporting role grows smaller and smaller—just as it should be.  Yesterday morning, he announced that he was leaving for school saying that he probably wouldn’t be home until after gymnastics in the evening.  I left strawberries and grilled steak on the counter for him when I went to bed.  This independence feels natural and exciting—as long as I don’t think too long about the stage were leaving. 

Over spring break, Will and a buddy went up north to look at University of Vermont and then to ski Tuckerman, a big, wide open bowl on the side of Mt. Washington, the highest mountain in the Northeast.  Will planned the trip himself with no requests from Bill or me.  “Just check in on occasion, when you get to each destination, maybe?” I asked.  Short texts emanated from Vermont and New Hampshire over the next 36 hours as Will hiked four hours up Tuckerman with skis on his back then decided to summit Mt. Washington, which meant another hour and a half of vertical climbing, before skiing down.  All completed in his snow boots meant for sledding and building snowmen.

“Arrived at hotel.”

“Heading up!”

“At the top”

“Hiking down”

“It was good”

“Heading home”

Last week, I was picking up the back porch; it was littered with a couple weeks’ worth of residue.  I took a brush to the snow boots and hung them over the edge of the deck as I cleaned the dried dirt off of them.  Mountain dirt.  It made me smile.  I glanced down to the corner of the deck and saw the treasure Will had brought home from Rhode Island a few days after the trip of north: a twenty-inch long horseshoe crab shell he found on a beach.  With his sense of smell still missing from having COVID in December, he managed to carry this beast home on the back seat of his car.  Will bounded into the house with his bags and said, “Mom, you won’t believe the horseshoe crab shell I found!” Will knows that I’m a sea treasure fanatic; I went to retrieve it from his car.  When I opened the door, a whiff of old sea hit me.  Never have we seen such a big horseshoe crab shell! 

Fifteen years ago, we were in Iowa for a celebration that brought all of my family’s extended family and friends together, maybe an anniversary or a birthday?  Will was two years old and had discovered a short ramp inside the hall where we were all gathered.  For ages, he walked up and down the ramp—falling over and looking a bit befuddled at the slanted floor.  None of the falls brought tears, and he hauled himself up each time.  I kept a peripheral eye on him.  One of our neighbors had been watching him… and me.  “You know, a lot of moms would be over there picking their sons up each time they fell.  Good for you letting him work it out himself!”

That moment made me question whether I should’ve been more alert.  Were there others who thought the opposite—why isn’t Mom helping?  Still, there were no tears and Will was entertaining himself; his mostly yellow outfit would be a bit dirty by the end of the day and he might perhaps have a few bruises on his knees, but otherwise he’d be intact.  Without a doubt, that question of how-much-should-I-do? has been the one most self-asked throughout these seventeen years. 

Over the last year, I’ve learned to respond more than to interject.  I’m supporting the adventures rather than planning them.  And I’ll forever be thankful for one-line texts.

“Can you make a grilled cheese?”

Yes.  Any time.