I spent the last two weeks planting seeds. Not in the ground, not yet, too wet, so very, very wet, but in my kids.
Play dates with potential friends, art classes, 4H clubs (one not great, one so great), meeting with new doctors, new neighbors, and hiring sweet babysitters who, according to Bea are “joyful without pretending”.
The school rhythm is established. The house is our home. We have a pew at church.
Four of the five older hens are laying, and in just two weeks the five “chicks” will be four months old and ready to join the flock. We’re only a week out from 10 hours of daylight.
I’m up what feels like too late most nights in deep conversation with my almost 9 year old and too early cramming PNW gardening books into my brain. Both leave me feeling profoundly incompetent.
Somehow I thought we’d have more time to float, to be in the in-between. But we are here now, firmly rooted, and everything is growing so fast.
This is the part where I just trust that everything is planted in the right spot and, even if it’s not, do my best to keep up.