Weeping Willows

We are slowly building upon our lanscape in the backyard, and last week we added three weeping willows. I find weeping willows to be the trees of storybooks, or at least trees that you sit under to read a storybook. I like the way their branches cascade down, providing shelter from the sun and the world. I've always wanted weeping willows, and can foresee Oliver living out that childhood wish that I had, when he curls up hidden underneath their canopies when he wants to be alone.

I am quite alone this weekend. Michael has taken Ollie to Mankato for the weekend to visit Grandma and Grandpa Childe, and I am on-call. It's the longest I've been away from Oliver, and it makes me feel as sad as the droopy young trees that now live at the bottom of our hill. I miss him. Michael and Auntie Val have been sending me gads and gads of pictures, like the one above, and videos of him waving, babbling, growing up. I read a quote today while waiting for my coffee. It read, "Spend time with your kids today. Tomorrow they're a day older." Thanks a lot, Caribou. I'll take note of that. And get in the car with my skim mocha and cry, staring at my phone waiting for another picture.

I'll admit that there are some very lovely things about having the house to myself. When I sit down, I can stay sitting. I did the dishes on Friday night, and they are still clean. The only person I have to bathe and dress is me, and I'm proud to say that I don't wear diapers. I can watch whatever I want on TV, or I can have it off. I have not washed a single 4-part-venting-system Dr Brown's bottle since Friday morning.

You might think that I'd be exercising my freedoms with great celebration, but I am having a tough and busy weekend on-call. The dreams I had for reading my book-club book, cleaning my craft room, finally bringing the 10 boxes stuffed with donations to Good Will, and playing piano will not be coming to fruition. My quiet house is allowing me time to catch up on charting after driving around all day, seeing very sad things.

Coming home to my Ollie and holding him in my arms makes days like this a little more bearable. But he's not here. My arms are empty. When I have the more-than-occasional pity party for myself, I look at those willows, with the intention of drawing parallels between their sad branches and my sad self. But what I see is green, new life. I see trees that are making our house a home, trees that will be giving us shelter someday. And in the front yard, the blossoms on another tree have burst open, more signs of life and newness. It makes me remember how blessed I am that Oliver is coming back, healthy and growing, and will be in my arms soon.