On March 9, I saw my niece and nephew. They left early for the airport with my sister and brother-in-law; eight-something real-time but seven-something for us, because of daylight savings.
On March 9, I got to spend the day with my family. My son was invited to a dance party downtown at a club called “The Temple,” with Baby Loves Disco. He skulked around the edges of the dance floor with his seven-year-old friends while my four-year-old daughter had her face painted with rainbows, hearts and glitter, and got a seahorse tattoo on her forearm. There was cheese pizza cut in triangles, soda, chocolate cupcakes.
On the way home, on BART, my daughter fell asleep in my arms, and her body was unfamiliarly long, legs and arms spilling over.
On March 9, I was grateful that my husband made dinner, pulling together leftovers from our fridge. I was grateful that we got back into routine. After celebrating three of our birthdays in February and early March, and having visitors, we were suddenly left with nothing to plan for. I was grateful for the stillness, the quiet, the going to bed early.
And at the end of March 9, I was completely exhausted!