26/52.

Today was the last day of the school year. I am feeling this seasonal shift into summer more acutely as a parent, I think, than I remember feeling it as a child. For it's more than just the pool opening or searching skies for afternoon thundershowers. When you're a parent, it's more than the joyous embarkment on a "three-month weekend." Now the end of the school year represents a concrete passage of time. It's a bookend, a break to step back and acknowledge--to really see--how much has changed over the course of one year. 

In September, when we first met the magical person that became Cecile's teacher, Cecile was still a toddler. Now, long-limbed with coils of hair amassed on her head, Cecile speaks in full sentences, can rationalize, negotiate, and her imagination is in full flourish. A toddler no more, she is tough and independent and opinionated. She is a person. And then there's Genevieve, who at the beginning of the year had no schedule and no needs, really, other than to be nursed and to be held. At morning drop-off and afternoon pick-up, I'd fold her into my linen wrap and walk the two-block walk with her head against my chest. And here just this week, ten months later, Genevieve took her first wobbly, wide-stance steps.

And so today I honor the year and give thanks to the teachers that made it our most meaningful one yet. Tomorrow I look forward. Tomorrow is brimming with delicious potential.

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