In the mornings.

If it's a sunny morning, we'll walk down the gravel and dirt road in front of our new home.

Most mornings I'm still barely functioning and holding a half-full coffee mug.  

We walk quickly because it's still a little chilly and because we normally feel like maybe we're a few minutes behind. 

The questions are usually the same concerning the day ahead, any tests or challenges, and what's happening in the evening.  

And then, in just a few moments, we get to the end of the road.  Even though she's as tall as I am, I'll kiss her on top of her head, tell her that I love her and remind her to be nice, make good choices and say "no" to drugs, and send her on her merry middle school way.  

I wait to make sure she's gotten safely across the street and in the care of the neighbors. 

And then I turn around to head back home.  

Recently the sun has been shining a little brighter and enormously loud flocks of birds have been heading north.  

Spring is coming. 

I take another sip of coffee and carefully avoid the divots in road and I look across the camp field.

Summer is coming. 

I yearn for those perfect mornings when it's not too cold and not too humid.  

And then I'm facing our house again.

New beginnings, new adventures, new routines, new messes.

But this house is calling us to slow down a little and I'm doing my best to answer the siren's call.

I take a deep breath and head back inside to collect my bags and my middle child. 

It's another day. 

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