Sittin' in my she-shed

I feel so happy right now. My running is coming along well, and I am no longer scared that I won't be able to finish the half-marathon in September. Turns out I'm actually a pretty good runner, and, delightfully, my frozen shoulder has fully thawed. Finally.

Jack is in the homestretch of his first camp, a great tech-fitness combo that thrills his mind and reminds him daily that it's no good to be a total screen zombie. Play and sports (even for the athletically less-inclined) are critically important balances for indoor and cerebral work. He's made a robot a day, has a core group of pals and comes home every day bubbling with excitement and that best sort of fatigue that comes from having immersed yourself in something over a good bit of time.

I have never made a robot in my life but watching my J so jazzed about gears and programming and such reminds me how much fun it can be to support your child's interests, help them find educational outlets for them and run. 

Oliver was heartbreakingly nervous to start camp on Monday but has been very brave and is now mostly happy. 

I have finally learned to manage my own nervousness about new situations but am reminded that doing so took many years. It was totally worth it, and so even though my heart crumbles when Ol's lip trembles, I must help him walk through  the fires of anxiety -rather than around- for that is the only way to extinguish them.

I'm in AROMO right now and can hear birds chirping all around. For those of you who are unfamiliar with AROMO, it stands for A Room of My Own. This room is the lovely cedar playhouse Tom and I built for the boys several summers back. They never played in it, so I reclaimed it, put a desk, rug and lamp inside and now write out here regularly. A friend recently said she wanted a she-shed; I realized that's what I'd made and loved that such things are a movement of sorts. Go ladies and the spaces we need and deserve!

a hydrangea from my yard

This week has provided me some much-needed recalibration. I'd lost my proverbial oxygen mask but have now found and reapplied it. I am grateful that I'm learning how to recognize the danger-zone speed and apply the brakes sooner. 

Soon, some darling kids are coming over for a birthday-inspired playdate for J, my 4th of July baby. He wants to play Pokemon (total gag; I cannot believe this is back in my life) and have a giant ice cream sundae bar. Done and done. I'm also going to grill burgers and boil corn and cut watermelon and let them eat and play themselves silly. And so I'm off, refueled and raring to go.

La sera/AROMO

It's just past the flux point in Italy when you start to greet people with Buona sera, "Good evening", rather than Buon giorno, "Good day". It's funny how often, in the afternoon, I muse on that whit of knowledge. I suppose it's in part because my sister lives in Italy, and when I'm there, I try to speak accurately. But I also like that inflection in their day; it's an acknowledgement of what is past and what is shortly to come. Buona sera can only be used for so long; soon enough you've got to switch to Buona notte, accepting that nighttime is upon you and il giorno will alight anew in the near future. I'm sitting in AROMO. The door swung open, and I left it that way; better to hear the rustling leaves, chirping birds and cadenced crickets in chorus outside. Nutmeg is perched on this little hut's railing, ever-hopeful that he'll catch a bird or insect as it flits past. The kids are playing happily inside with a sitter, and I've come out here for a sliver of time to myself. It's been too hot lately to spend much time in this space. I've missed it.

I like the solitude and the simplicity that sit with me in this room. I love that I've carved a spot within it -rug, desk, lamp, chair- but that reminders of the boys remain all around. Newspaper clippings, pens, notepads and a tiny stapler are within my reach; beyond, are planks of wood decorated by children in the thrill of being able to paint on walls. A blackboard hangs in the corner, a rainbow of broken chalk lining its narrow tray. Nonsensical labels crafted by last-year Oliver "tell" us what certain items are. From the old peg board hang dusty tools, wands and an odd bin of miscellany.

Out here I feel disconnected in a way that I don't inside. It's a mere fifteen feet to our basement door, but that bit of physical distance is important: in my cozy annex, I'm home but only kind of. Our Wi-Fi reaches me, but I choose to ignore that fact; why is so hard to do that inside? What makes this space different?

I think it's because of how AROMO came to pass; a homebody mother recognized that she needed a sanctuary and her children no longer used the playhouse she'd built them. She brought the structure to its initial fruition for them but then along with her as she evolved. A full circle sort of event.

T laughs when he sees me come in here, but I don't care that I have to duck slightly to enter. Once inside, I can stand tall and stretch out, in myriad ways. This little space is in the center of the Venn diagram of many things I treasure: my home, nature, proximity to my children, my kitchen. What's not to love?

Out here, my breath slows, my shoulders drop, my mind opens. It's so weirdly easy to forget my to-do list. Inside that thing haunts me like a needy ghost, but in my own room? Poof.

I stole away today because I have been working hard. I wanted to escape the pings of others' needs and sit with myself and my thoughts for a while before I must head out again. Simple rejuvenation of the best sort.