I’m not totally sure we just had Easter weekend. I mean, I know I had two extra days off, making it a long weekend with my children, but because I’m not religious, I’m not really sure what Easter is supposed to mean. As far as I can tell, much like Halloween, it’s basically about candy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but parenting can give you this vague sense that holidays are supposed to be more substantial or meaningful than just temporarily suspending sugar restrictions. And my confusion reminded me that, like biting into that cheap Easter bunny, events that get built up, can often feel pretty hollow.

My 10-year old recently picked out a cool new pair of running shoes. Funky bright yellow and very him. Breaking them in though, he realized they were challenging to get on, and likely wouldn’t fit him for that long. Sigh. He was depressed at the thought that he would likely outgrow these shoes faster than he would do them in. A minor reckoning ensued around growing and losing, and it took me a moment to appreciate that my feet don’t change size anymore. It was a little reminder that though things are always changing, with kids – though it never feels like it when you need it to – they’re changing fast.

Like the luddite that I am, I still use a big ol’ fridge calendar to make sense of my life. I’ve been known to even carry it with me to awkward places like meetings and the dentist’s. Each month’s page is littered with little letter B’s written in green marker. B is for boys. The green B’s mark the days I have my sons. The 50/50 custody schedule I share with my ex is simple and easy to remember, but the visual still makes it easier to plan things. It’s also a weird little testament to a strange and stark divide. I’m always a mother, but for half of my life, I’m not on the clock as one.