I look out the large picture window in front of where I sit typing and notice how today is not sure whether it will be sunny or cloudy.<\/p>\n

I feel a mixture of emotions as I know that the summer is closing and fall is on the cusp. I love fall, but I’ve never enjoyed this change.<\/p>\n

It’s not because\u00a0I love\u00a0summer activities either, although I do. In the past, it was because my mom, being a teacher, went back to work full-time. Now, it’s because my daughter goes back to school.<\/p>\n

My daughter is not even in school for a full day yet. I cannot bear to contemplate how this will make me feel when she is. Yet I’m glad that I’m the kind of mother who, on most days at least, does not want her baby to go back to a regular four-day-a-week school schedule.<\/p>\n

I’m relieved that I want her home with me to eat lunch and go to the zoo and run errands and read books 20 times in a row. I didn’t think I would be this sort of mom.<\/p>\n

I like a lot of alone time and, as a mother of\u00a0two young children, I barely get any at all. I have bathroom company always and sing-a-long partners on car rides. I’m almost always with my children, and I love this, but I also struggle to find the time that I need to exercise, and write, and be a woman outside of my “mom” role.<\/p>\n

So, when last school year ended and the summer sat waiting in front of us, I stood staring it down in ready frustration and anxiety—I was afraid to not have these two hours when my daughter was in preschool, even though I had a baby home with me during this time frame. It was still a tiny portion\u00a0of “me” time—if I could get the baby to sleep or swing happily next to my yoga mat or laptop.<\/p>\n

But then I realized that my anticipation of being overwhelmed with 24\/7 motherhood was potentially damaging to how the summer\u00a0would actually turn\u00a0out.<\/p>\n

So, instead, I grew fiercely determined that we would have a glorious summer together. I excitedly got a sprinkler and renewed our zoo pass. I stocked up on sunscreen and bought hats for both of my fair-skinned girls.<\/p>\n

Our summer was awesome—so much so that my school-loving child did not want to go back. I had to, in turn, mentally prepare her<\/em> with a positive attitude\u00a0that school would be fantastic and a nice break from a teething baby sister and grumpy, hasn’t-slept-enough mama.<\/p>\n

School started last week. My stomach roller-coaster drops just thinking about how most of our weekday mornings will be\u00a0spent apart, rather than sitting on the favored ladybug of the zoo’s carousel or nibbling\u00a0fresh produce at snack time, underneath a shaded picnic bench at the local outdoor market.<\/p>\n

My daughter still loves school—and I am, after all, getting to sit here and write this while she’s away from my waiting side.<\/p>\n

I once again look out over\u00a0my\u00a0computer’s screen,\u00a0to a\u00a0growing patch of sunshine. It’s slightly overcast and a little bit breezy, but the day appears to be one of dawning light.<\/p>\n

And life gives us hurdles and responsibilities and schedules that we must maintain, but the attitudes that we take with us are\u00a0all our own making.<\/p>\n

Sometimes I’m grumpy, while others I’m determined. Mostly, though, I’m just trying to find a patch of glimmering sunlight on an otherwise cloudy day.<\/p>\n

Many experiences in life are ambiguous in their enjoyment—the colors that life takes on are typically our own perceptions.<\/p>\n

I often ask my daughter whether or not she thinks today is partly cloudy or partly sunny. Her answers vary, and she occasionally asks me what I think.<\/p>\n

I tell her that I’ve\u00a0found appreciating both the daylight and its complementary\u00a0shadows makes all the difference in the world.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n