When I was a young mother, I would reflect out into the future, choosing any given expanse of time—5 years, 10 years, 15 years—and run through my mind how that would look for our family. How old would each of the kids be? Which grade would they be in? What would their lives look like? What would my life look like based on those scenarios? The further I pushed the years out, the more impenetrable those notions would be; such as when the big girls graduated high school, and my son would then be a senior in high school and our youngest, a middle schooler. How unrecognizable that felt, as my toddler and preschoolers ran about, tangling up with one another, skipping naps, and grinding something—well, just about everything—into the “no mess” zone of the carpeted living room with cream colored sofas. I would tell myself—as often as possible—to soak it all in because, based on my calculations, my nestlings would someday—right around 1,000 breezy years—take flight. And until then, I needed to make some PB&J sandwiches, sans crust and cut into triangles; I needed to serve up snacks of sliced apples, skin removed; and the string cheese would either need to be strung off into venomous snakes, or pulled (not all the way) apart into octopus tentacles. 

It’s a relief to remember those “octopus” string cheese days—every good mother’s long list of failings can be softened by such recollections. 

Those 1,000 years blew by more swiftly than I had imagined they would. Those foreign thoughts of my rascally little kids becoming big kids becoming young adults … came true. Three of them have graduated high school. The caboose kid, once the ever-lasting baby of the family, is now a permitted and practicing car driver. One of the big girls even made me a (young) glamma, adding two darling, precious, mighty little girls to our family. So far, I haven’t allowed my mind to expand out over the years with my grand girls … I’m happily riding shotgun as they drive their early years forward—one in the midst of babyhood and about to walk, and the other solidly into those precious preschool years. 

As I’ve honored the “stay home, stay safe” rule over the last couple of months, I’ve daydreamed about having my brood back under my roof, all four of them testing my nerves and making life so incredibly … full and fun. I’m sure there were moments in their early years when I longed of them to grow and mature and tone down their voices and, perhaps, spill less. And now I’ve officially transitioned into the phase of my life where I long to hear their spirited voices and feel their sweaty arms wrapped too tightly around my neck. I beg of them to let me fill their plates with their favorite foods and fill their glasses with their favorite drinks. They occasionally oblige—coming over for brunch, our favorite meal together, spilling out of the living room sliding glass doors and onto the deck, draping their bodies over patio furniture with their heads tipped back and faces toward the sun, rousingly catching up with one another, laughter escaping with abandon. I never dreamed of this, I’ll whisper in my mind as tears heat up the corners of my eyes. But I love it so, I silently reply, as my heart promises itself I’ve enjoyed them every step of the way. 

Fortunately, it takes less convincing for my 15 ½ year old, Peach, to spend time with me, so I’m still soaking her up as often as she allows it. We moved into new territory in our relationship last weekend after she convinced me to allow her to log some drive hours with a little road trip. (She and I are kindred spirits in the “get the heck out of dodge” department.) It was 2 p.m. and the little grand girls had just been retrieved by their mama after an overnight at my house. I was exhausted and about to take an afternoon snooze when Peach suggested we hop in the car and “go somewhere”—grabbing the attention of both the little dog and me. My years—and longing—as a mama made my eyes wide and we were filling water bottles and hopping in the car in less than 15 minutes. 

I had been encouraging Peach to sharpen her already good photography eye, and to build up her Instagram with worthy images, so we both agreed the hour and a half drive to Washtucna to snap some colorful photos of the famed NW Bus was the perfect direction—and adventure—for the afternoon. The NW Bus is much like Seattle’s gum wall, but an abandoned school bus being slowly eaten by the earth instead of a wall in an alley, and visitors leave their mark with spray-painted instead of gum. There was a family in the bus when we arrived, and another family waiting in their car, so we climbed out of our car with our adventure pooch, Dixie, and walked around the perimeter until it was our “turn” to take hold the wonders for a bit. On the way back home, we stopped to snap pics of old trucks and farm equipment in the surrounding fields. We caught up on life, we sang along to the radio at the top of our lungs with the windows rolled down, almost died twice (practicing drivers are terrifying creatures), and etched into time beautiful memories of an ordinary Saturday afternoon we’ll always remember. And I loved it so.

Wishing you all an amazing start to your summer with many adventures to come. Please find me on Facebook and Instagram—and hop over to “like” the Spokane Coeur d’Alene Living pages—to stay connected between press dates, and share your thoughts, stories, and life in real time.

To time with those we love,

Stephanie Regalado 

stephanie@spokanecda.com