On a sleepy Sunday morning, my son Alex tiptoed into our shared bedroom around 7 a.m. “Mom,” he said, his eyes still heavy with sleep, “I saw a… wait, what are those birds that are bright red?” I struggled to shake off the remnants of slumber, attempting to fully wake up. “A cardinal,” I replied, my voice thick with drowsiness.
“Cardinal,” my partner Mark repeated, slightly delayed.
“I saw a baby one fall out of a tree,” Alex continued, his excitement slowly breaking through my fog of lethargy.
“What?” I asked, my heart racing at the thought of a fallen bird. “Did it die?”
“No,” he assured me. “Its mom was watching from another tree, making sure it was safe.”
“Good to know. We can talk more about it later. You can head downstairs if you’d like.” As I drifted back into drowsiness, the morning’s reality slipped away for a few more minutes.
Boxes Everywhere
Boxes have been our constant companions for the past few weeks—filled, empty, and somehow still containing random items that seem to have no place. We’ve packed at Mark’s place and then at mine, only to find ourselves surrounded by a chaotic array of boxes in our new home. It feels like a strange metaphor for our life, complete with a U-Haul logo prominently featured.
With each box we unpack, we face countless decisions. What should go where? Can I put this here? Should we buy more storage solutions? We are nearing the end of our second week in this new place, and things are improving day by day. Each box we unpack makes the house feel more like home. Finally, we have curtains up—what a luxury! I had spent the first week figuring out how to dress without revealing too much to the neighbors.
Amid the unpacking, adjusting, and the whirlwind of family blending, I sometimes find myself reflecting on the emotional well-being of our kids. We’re no longer a family of three; we’re a party of six on some days and just the two of us on others. There’s a bittersweet charm to those moments of solitude that I won’t deny.
As I observe my children, I worry if they’re coping well with the changes, if the smiles they wear hide deeper feelings. Since our move, I’ve allowed them more screen time than usual to ease the transition, but I can’t help but notice them glued to screens while I pass by, trying to gauge their mood.
Did This All Happen?
Every morning feels surreal. Mark is here, in our home—a place I’ve envisioned for weeks. We share the same space, and I no longer have to say goodnight over the phone after an hour-long commute.
Sometimes, it doesn’t feel real. As I tidy up and work in an office that has actual walls instead of kitchen corners, I wonder if I’m still dreaming. After dropping the kids off at their dad’s one Sunday evening, I realized I forgot to ask Alex about the baby cardinal. I began to question whether our conversation was real or just a figment of my imagination.
“Did Alex mention a bird the other morning?” I asked Mark the next day.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “He said something about a baby cardinal falling from a nest. Or maybe he just dreamed it.”
I chuckled at the thought of dream interpretation. The bird, now a ‘kid’ like Alex, falling but being watched over by its mother. Was this a reflection of Alex’s feelings about our new life? I turned to an online dream dictionary for insights and found that seeing a cardinal symbolizes happiness and vitality. Was Alex’s happiness at risk? Or perhaps he felt a bit overlooked?
I’ve lost many nights worrying about how my kids will adapt to their new school. I send countless pleas into the universe: “Please let them find friends,” “Please let them be treated kindly.” These worries are out of my control, but I can prepare them as best as I can. I can reassure them that even if they stumble, it’s okay to get up and try again.
I want them to know that I’m always here, watching over them—hopefully not in a creepy way.