I am watching The Tank and Mr Fuzzypants play.
The old man-cat thumps around and seems
game, if ungainly. The younger Mr F is in his
element; racing, jumping, flipping into rolling
dives. Afterward, The Tank looks a tad grim,
and Mr Fuzzypants has moved on to hunting socks.
We are switching gears here in the Marsbarn.
One routine is merging into another as Miss G
transitions back into school life. She's starting
six weeks after her friends, and they are so, so
glad to have her.
None of us are sorry to leave the previous routine.
This move forward feels good, if not awkward.
There is a bit of a grinding sensation as the
metaphorical wheels grind asphalt and all of the
planning and preparation merges into the
rough start of gaining speed on the tarmac,
before the first, fitful bounds of tentative fight.
We are in motion, which is good, but there is
that lurching sensation that pulls on the gut.
There will be a long process of finding what works,
what doesn't, and putting into practice what was
theoretical. I have moments of breathlessness
when I look at how far we've come, and how good
the view looks from here. We're not done.
We're a long way from done, but this particular
leap forward feels like we've reached an entirely