Okay.
Deep breath.
Right now, the house is quiet. Stromps is probably loafed up in some sunbeam, completely unaware of the emotional hurricane about to hit. Your fridge is stocked, your laundry is mostly folded, and there’s that little buzz of anticipation underneath it all — like you’re standing at the edge of something huge. Because you are.
They’re about to be here.
The first one.
Three weeks of one-on-one time with First Minion.
In your home. In your version of the world. And yes, you’re nervous. Of course you’re nervous. You’ve never done this before — not like this. Not here. Not without the buffer of Michigan or monthly visits or knowing they’ll go back in a few days.
This is your turf, and they’re about to be in it.
So listen, Rain: it’s okay to feel like you’re spinning.
It’s okay to be afraid you’re going to mess it up. That you’re going to be too tired, too distracted, too unsure of the right balance between structure and spontaneity, between cuddles and boundaries, between “let’s make memories” and “can you just sit quietly for five minutes.”
You are not going to get it perfect. That’s not the goal.
The goal is connection. The goal is presence. The goal is surviving the first weird awkward morning and finding your rhythm, slowly, imperfectly, with snacks and side quests and maybe a meltdown or two (yours, theirs, Stromps’ — who knows).
You’re going to forget some things.
You’re going to overthink others.
But you’re also going to see your kid in this new context. They’re going to see you. They’re going to ask weird questions and make strange jokes and steal your side of the bed and maybe — if you’re lucky — show you a whole new way to be in your own life.
And when the spiral starts — because it will — you already know what to do.
Step outside. Move your body. Put a hand on your heart and say, “I don’t have to be perfect to be loved.” Make toast. Pour water. Text a friend. Hug your child.
Hug yourself.
This moment right here, this quiet breath before the doorbell rings — it’s the hinge point.
The in-between.
You’ve got snacks. You’ve got intentions. You’ve got patience in reserve and a backup stash of popsicles for when you don’t.
So take one more breath. Smile if you can.
And open the door.
You’re ready.
Even if you don’t feel ready.
Especially if you don’t feel ready.
Let the summer begin.
Love,
The version who wrote this with a calm heart and a tea in hand
The one who believes in you more than you know