We’ve had two very regular, average, normal days in a row. Radiation has gone smoothly (audible sigh) and Austin has even put in two appearances at school. Yesterday, he was all excited about it at the hospital, naming his classmates for the curious doctor and eagerly guessing what they’d do for an art project. Then, true to form, about two blocks from school, he suddenly decided he didn’t want to go. But I put my cancer-mother fears aside and treated this like the almost normal day that it was: I brought him into his room, held him in my lap while they finished the story already in progress, and left shortly thereafter. I did linger in the hallway for a few extra minutes, chatting with the other teachers, trying to get over my own anxiety about leaving him there without me. But I peeked in the window and he was busily working on a puzzle, so off I went to my pilates class.

Today was even better, “more smiles” reported by his teacher. Two days in a row at school, missing only the first half hour due to radiation. Not many kids have that as their tardy excuse! He put on his new snowpants all by himself, climbed the mounds of white stuff to play on the playground, went to Movement class and the library, ate his snack and played with Play-Doh. Just like any other kid. Just like any other day.

Things have been so normal, in fact, that he refused to take a nap, even when I offered to lie down with him (these early mornings on top of his not-so-great nights are killing me). So normal that, after I slaved away all yesterday afternoon making soup from my new cancer-fighting cookbook, both boys ended up eating leftover spaghetti while Mark and I loaded up on powerful antioxidants.

So normal that this afternoon when they asked for the thousandth time if we could go sledding, I came up with my thousandth excuse; really convincing ones like that I hadn’t started dinner yet or needed to go through the pile of mail putting down roots on the dining room table. As the (so normal) whining reached a feverish pitch, I stopped saying no long enough to wonder what sort of memories I’d want them to have of their mother. Should they look back years from now and remember a woman who always managed to organize the mail? (Not likely, trust me.) Who did nothing but feed them, clothe them and drive them to the hospital?

So we bundled up, Braedan out the door in record speed (funny, he’s not nearly that fast in the morning before school . . .), Austin resembling a Michelin man in all his layers of gear. I dragged them in a sled over to the park, which conveniently closes at “Dusk.” Thus ensued a conversation about what “dusk” means, which I initially described as “sunset” until I realized how hard it is to pinpoint when the sun sets if the sun hasn’t come out all day (or week). We settled on that moment when the sky turned from light gray to dark gray and headed home. But before that, both boys and their mom zipped down the hill, squealing as the snow sprayed up into our faces, fear and accomplishment blending into one. It was a quite a rush: sledding on a hill all our own, tears streaming down our cheeks from both the cold wind and the spreading laughter. This is the mom they should have memories of; this is the childhood they deserve.

So normal.

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