be with them now; the rest can wait.
easier said than done, this sound advice, this obvious want, when sometimes your head spins so fast you half expect it to come flying off. you’ll take a deep breath and close your eyes as you’re launched towards the sun, your lost body flailing in the distance.
but try – never stop, because when you get down on your hands and knees and feel the soft earth beneath you and the weight of your burly five year old on your back, the guilt melts into the grass; so does the worry, the remembering of strange times, the picture of unwashed clothes from all the places we never went. we’re here now, finally, coming up for air after the worst of times.
and when they’re older they might remember all the times you drew your knees to your chest and cried with the uncertainty of it all. but own it. explain it. lay it down at their feet and show them the shimmering complexity of the year that changed everything. remind them how proud you are of them for navigating through the mist. thank them for giving you room to figure it out yourself.
then get down on your hands and knees and play. the rest can wait.