The playground.

July 15, El Cerrito.

The days go by, the routine is set, the morning walks with the stroller, Dylan pushing, Nicolas slowly kicking his legs and soon going to sleep, Dylan pointing at his seat when he gets tired, dozing off then sometimes; the afternoons at the park up in the hills of El Cerrito (little hill in Spanish,) at the playground and Dylan just loves it, and I love it, love watching him play, make friends, lose them, run, charm, follow, explore, test his limits, all these months in the circus we were never close enough to a playground, he's 20 month old and this is his first time experiencing one, and for me the newly discovered world of playground's dynamics, the parents and the children, the (mostly but not entirely) Moms' talk, the cliques and the loners (I'm in the latter, being the new Mom on the block,) there are bi, tri and even quadru-lingual kids in this playground too, everything from the Russian grandmother to the Vietnamese-American parents to the Mexican nanny speaking Spanish to the brother and sister in her care, whose mother is French and father Italian (they answer in English.) This is California.
I feel like an official Mom. Fridman is coming back tomorrow, and it seems like his presence will be almost superfluous. Two weeks exactly alone with my babies and I've never been so happy, the sheer sight of them my nirvana, my everything.