|The backyard sky, as seen from the warmth of the dining room.|
It's the last day of the year and I'm awake with one child and he plays on the floor and I sing to him and he claps the linoleum like a drum. I'm brewing tea, a loose earl gray creme, and one of the purple pieces falls to the floor. He pauses, expertly pincer grabs it, tastes. I don't know what the purple is in my tea, but he considers it, spits it out. Now he's tasted tea for the first time. It'll be a year of tasting new things for him. He has five teeth and a pincer grasp and what else could one need for 2011? The world is his buffet.
He wasn't here yet, a year ago, but now he is, and a little caffeinated before the dawn. He's ready for the last day of this drying up year, and anything that might follow.
And what will come in 2011? The lovely husband and I will celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. E will begin kindergarten, which is perhaps the biggest change ever yet to come in her life; and she'll be at school away from her brother and her sister and me, which is perhaps the biggest change in the shape of my daily mothering. I'll have a baby away from me. L will learn to be the big girl on campus, and G will walk soon, and just think what he'll be like when he's caffeinated and ambulatory.
It's the morning of the last day of the expiring year. A day's light is coming and then the world will turn around again and something new is waiting for us all on the other side.
Happy New Year, friends. A strongly-brewed toast in your honor.