There is a lull in the package-opening activity, long enough for me to scan the entire view of the playground from my post in the cafeteria. The uniforms make it difficult to distinguish distant, darting figures, but finally I pick my daughter out of the multitude of preppy-toned, plaid-clad children. Her back is to me, making it difficult to predict the forecast for our afternoon, until she turns and I see the smile that has often been absent as of late. No threatening storm clouds today—she plays hand-clap games and skips and jumps and leaps into the air, her friend following in a unison that is uncommon.

It has been a stormy year, first grade. Cloudbursts on the playground, downpours at home before bed. Soggy and weary to the bone, I gingerly clutch my umbrella, hoping the lightening will strike somewhere else this time. We’ve had enough relational excitement for now. But today, today the forecast is clear. Bedtime will be tear-free, and my galoshes will have a chance to dry out before the next time I am called upon to wade back into the middle and rescue my daughter from herself.

Ahhh… I breathe in the warm air and expel it with a sigh of tentative relief. She is smiling—all is sunny for the moment.

motherhood raising girls school