Weary, that’s how I’ve been feeling lately.

Autumn is creeping in, it still looks like summer but the light casts a distinct autumn glow, slanty and golden and less determined than summer light. The mornings have been cold; we creep out of bed more slowly, comforters tucked up under our chins and reach instantly for sweatshirts and socks. The days are harder to start, the coffee seems to take longer to steep, the kids sense the shifting of seasons and we are all a little less patient with one another.

Summer sings such a lovely song, but fall seems to hum a melancholy tune.

It’s not just the impending fall and winter that’s making me feel weary, it’s the shift out of summer with later bedtimes and dirty hands and bonfires, the shift back into routine, trying to fit the pieces of our routine together like a puzzle, trying a piece that looks just about right, failing, trying another piece. The baby, who’s really a toddler, needs more care. We’ve had our own rhythm at home while I work but it doesn’t work well anymore. Part of me wants him in full time care so that I can get my work done and he can have his needs met. Part of me wants to hold him so tightly and will him to stay this small, this cute, this babyish forever. But he’s not just a baby anymore. I found him climbing on my desk this morning. He’s starting to talk. His arms and legs are getting long and losing rolls and sometimes I’m shocked when I look at him and a little boy with fuzzy blond hair is looking back.

Sometimes parenting goes along smoothly, and life seems to sail by seamlessly. Sometimes it feels like everything is about to break, relationships are hanging by the hinges, the workload is too heavy. That’s where I’m at. But these times pass just like the seasons, and you find joy along the way.

This time of year has its perks, too. If I exist in the moment, holding it in my hands and allowing it to just be, the weather is perfect and breezy. The moon is strung up in the sky each afternoon, winking above pastel pinks and purples, wispy clouds, baby blues. In the west, a burning terracotta sun sinks into the darkening mountains. The trees are deep green and the foliage is full and a little overgrown. Everything hints towards turning, towards decaying but it’s not there yet. I get through the long weekends by taking lots of drives – to parks, to ice cream shops, to paths that we follow deep into the woods, the baby’s feet leading the way, a chorus of laughter as we follow him. Life is constantly moving and sometimes I get swept up in the flow and forget to stop and look at the wonder eyed gaze of my three year old as he watches the world, always watching, always listening, putting his own puzzles together.

These days are endlessly long but you blink and they’re gone. Even though I find myself wishing the ticking moments by, in reality, I don’t want to miss a thing.