One Sunday morning, my son Max tiptoed into our shared bedroom around 7 a.m. “Mom,” he announced, “I was looking out the window and saw a… wait, what are those birds that are really red?”
It took a moment for my sleep-addled mind to catch up. “A cardinal,” I replied.
“Cardinal,” my partner Alex echoed, just a beat behind me.
“I saw a baby one fall out of a tree,” Max continued.
“What?” I asked, my mind racing as I imagined starting the day in pajamas, standing over a tiny, broken bird with my sensitive 6-year-old. “Did it die?”
“No, its mom was watching from another tree,” he reassured me.
“Good. We can talk about it later. You can head downstairs if you want.”
As sleep overtook me again, I drifted back into the haze of dreams.
Home is Where the Boxes Are
Boxes. They’ve been our constant companions during this chaotic transition—some filled, some empty, and others that stubbornly cling to a few stray items without a clear destination. We’ve been packing and unpacking for weeks now, first at Alex’s place, then mine. Our living space has become a bizarre representation of the Circle of Life, courtesy of U-Haul.
So many decisions cloud our days: What goes where? Can I put this here? What do you think about including this? We’re nearly two weeks into this move, and things are improving daily. Each box that’s unpacked brings us closer to a livable space. The curtains are finally up, a welcome luxury after a week of figuring out how to dress without flashing the neighbors.
On top of this unpacking frenzy, we’re also blending families. We’ve shifted from a trio to a six-member household—and on some days, just the two of us, which we’ve both admitted is a great perk of our past lives.
I have my feelings about it all, but my biggest concern is the kids. Are they coping with the changes? Are they really happy, or are those smiles a mask for underlying sadness?
I worry my children have spent too much time glued to screens since the move. I’ve chosen to let go of strict screen time rules during this transition, but as I pass them on my way to the garage, I try to gauge how they’re feeling.
There’s been a whirlwind of tasks to complete, and I wish I could just check off “ensure the kids’ mental health” from the list.
Did It Really Happen?
Every morning, I wake up to find Alex beside me in this home I had envisioned for weeks. No more hour-long commutes or goodnight calls—he’s here, and it feels surreal. As I organize our home and the kids engage in their activities, I sometimes wonder if I’m still dreaming.
When I dropped the kids off at their father’s house Sunday night, I realized I had forgotten to ask Max about the baby cardinal. Did that conversation even happen? I later asked Alex if Max had mentioned it. “Yes,” he confirmed, “but he might have just dreamt it.”
Intrigued, I pondered this potential dream. The bird was no longer a baby but a “kid,” just like Max. Cardinals are vibrant red, and my mind connected that color to stability and security. Was Max worried about his own stability?
I consulted an online dream dictionary, which noted that seeing a cardinal represents vitality and happiness. Is Max feeling like his happiness is slipping? Or maybe that I’m too preoccupied with everything? Yet, the bird fell but was safe because its mother was watching—just like I am.
Moving is tough, and I’ve lost countless hours worrying about sending my kids to a new school. I’ve sent up countless prayers, asking for kindness from their peers and for them to find good friends. These worries are beyond my control.
Eventually, they’ll leave our new blended-family nest for school, and I can’t catch them if they stumble. All I can do is prepare them, cheer them on, and instill the belief that even if they fall, they can get back up. I’ll always be here, watching over them.
This journey of blending families is filled with uncertainties, but one thing remains certain: my love for them is unwavering.
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