Mrs. Darling (Wendy, John, and Michael’s mother) spent days empty, refusing to close the window to the nursery. She was confident that one day her children would fly back to her but she couldn’t be sure when.

The worry of two is almost paralyzing when I give it my full attention, which is why I so rarely do. I know there is no preparing for it, no amount of “you’ll be fine”s and “try not to worry”s that will ease my disquieted mind.

My three girls are always so close to me, following me from kitchen to bathroom and back, circling me as I clean or write or cook. They need to tell me about school, about what so-and-so said or didn’t say, about what princesses wear to bed.

Sometimes as a parent, I too have to dive in and call my children’s bluff in order to separate their intent from their behavior, their needs from their actions. 

But oh, let it come in waves. Let it roll in on a high tide and let them splash around in the surf of manhood, and then let it slip back in low tide so they can still search for shells on the wet shore of childhood.

Sometimes it’s not about the most expensive game or complicated activity. It’s just activating the imagination.

It’s looking into the future and seeing that someone may be missing. It’s holding each other’s wrinkled hands and wondering what life would be like with a few more grandchildren.

I feel the weight of her constantly, but especially on these nights, when I am so tired at the end of my long days. Her body is heavy on mine as I sit on the chair. 

I generally passed on adventure. I could see the ways things could go wrong. The mountain bike could careen off the trail. I could slip under the rail of the ski lift.

It told her something that I’d never said. That I cared about her being cold. That I cared about her. In that moment, wearing her new coat, I think she knew that and so did I.