Heading into this week, I thought a lot about that quote — “motherhood is juggling a lot of balls, and learning to distinguish between the ones that are glass and the ones that are plastic.” (Which are the ones I can drop softly, and which are the ones that will shatter into a thousand pieces?) It helped me sift through the noise and dial in on the bigger things happening this week: my son’s transition to first grade in a school his sister no longer attends; my daughter’s orientation at a new school; my sister’s visit. How could I show up for my children in the best way? How could I smooth down the coverlet? And how could I make space to focus on just my beloved without permitting my mind to skitter ahead to my miles-long to-do list? Then the news from Minneapolis cast a pall over everything. It was hard to think of anything but holding onto my children; everything else could wait.

At the end of the week, we had a meeting with my daughter’s new third grade teacher that she had titled on my calendar “Hopes and Dreams for Emory.” We talked at some length about our wishes for Emory for this school year, and the teacher held all of them and shared some fledgling thoughts and ideas: how we might best support her, what she might need. The teacher mentioned that students like Emory, meaning rule-followers and observers, often carry so much — too much — inside during the school day and while navigating new friendships. She shared that she uses an analogy with her students: if you keep holding it all in, you become a big balloon inside, pressurized and about to pop; you must learn to let the air out in little ways. She told us she would be there for Emory, to let her vent, to help her let the air out.

After we hung up, I cried. It was an aggregate cry, many-sourced. It had been such a heavy week, and then here was this angel teacher offering us a level of support I have never before felt as a parent. To think of this woman advocating for Emory in ways small and large, pledging to see her and help her: it was breathtakingly generous. And it felt like a pressure drop for me, too. Maybe I need that gentle caretaking as well.

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This week, I also stayed up way too late reading our Magpie book club pick in the evenings. It is long, but it flies; the pace of narrative and the grip of the story will keep you on the edge of your seat. I find myself so moved by the relationship between Marguerite and Damienne; maybe I was looking for the shapes of caretaking all week long? It certainly felt like a pronounced motif, especially when my children’s former nanny came by on Friday. We hadn’t seen her in months and months, and Emory asked all day long, “how many hours until Silvia comes?” and then stood at the doorframe watching her for car. When she passed through the lintel, we were a barrel of hugs and coos and “you’ve gotten so tall!” and knowing smiles and old jokes. The feeling of falling into a familiar hammock. Another woman who has mothered me.

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Just this morning, I sat at my desk before going down to make breakfast for the children. I rarely do this, as I am wont to get sucked into my work if I so much as open my word processor, and then I am cranky if I must pluck myself out again before I’ve gotten a round sentence out. But I was sitting here at this little water-warped white desk, pawing at this diary post, and a red tailed hawk landed on the branch immediately outside my studio window: I had a clear and unimpeded view of its majesty from five feet away. I found myself holding my breath, and then quickly called Landon to witness it. It was there for thirty seconds and then gone, a brief and beautiful augur, impressively big with bright, seeing eyes and enormous, capable talons. I had read that red-tailed hawks are symbols of protection, guardianship. I had also read that female red-tailed hawks are bigger than their male counterparts — blocky and bold — and I chose to believe “it” had been “a her.” Another echo of the mothering caretaker.

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P.S. The red-tailed hawk sighting reminded me of the birding tradition in which the first bird you see in January is meant to be a portent for the new year. This year, I forgot to pay attention and instead noticed a fox and decided it would be my 2025 avatar. What bird/animal did you first notice and has it held true for the year?

P.P.S. I released a separate post this morning with some truly incredible Labor Day finds here.

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