I am sitting on the grassy slope, keeping an eye on the kids and our bikes. Chas is lying on his back, arms wide, laughing at the twilight and the moon. Ford is networking with another stranger. They’re wild and free. I’m in a funk, but Damon encouraged this bike ride. And here we are, downtown, waiting for the bats. Emotional management.

A colossal thunderhead looms over downtown, rolling south. It’s insides churn with lightening. We pack up the kids and head back, weaving through pedestrians on the bridge. Half of them are holding camerafones to the sky. Passing them, we feel a headwind as the storm sucks up our warm air, wafting guano up from beneath the bridge: intense and murky, like cultured warm beef agarose.

Faster we pedal back, past the biggest pillowfight I’ve ever seen, diffusing with hoopla under police megafone. I want to be in it, to detox. I can’t clip through the shadows fast enough for all the angst. Instead, I whiz through the trees wondering whether my kids will grow up as moody as me. While some parents hope their children become pro basketball players, I hope my children become rational problem-solvers. Fortunately, I am married to one. The odds are even, I guess.

I just got a new battery for my Powerbook. Damon stood in line for service while Ford played a video game. I stood over Chas while he stood bouncing on one of the black ball-shaped seats at the kiddie table.

Friday morning we took a hike along the creek. We chased a young bullfrog, who teased us along a stretch of cattails at the bank before disappearing into some brown muck. Ford was so eager to catch him, standing there with his little plastic red bucket. Chas only wanted to shout and jump into the water. We had to retreat into the woods to keep everyone safe.

I stopped to inspect the mustang grapes, and Chas disappeared. I felt my heart in my thighs ten seconds later, when he reappeared uphill about thirty yards; he had found a loop and had come round to surprise us. Mind you, we were walking along a twenty-foot precipice that overlooked the creek.

Chas is a bushwhacker, both on and off the trail. We put him point blank, while Ford trailed behind, scouting for honeysuckle. He managed to find four blossoms, and gingerly dissect them for the four drops of nectar among them.

On saturday, we biked along the lake. Though the landscape is vibrant and the wildflowers are in bloom, people were the life force along the lake, running, canoeing, parading, strolling. Winding through the trees, we trailered the boys and their havoc, like a small zoo train with a cage of crackhead chimpanzees. I wore a constant smile; for one thing, I wasn’t the one hauling the trailer, and for another: it really does sound cute. Despite the mayhem, I like robust, vibrant kids and my kids are anything but reserved.

Some jocks were playing kayak polo under the MoPac bridge, the ball barely clearing the beams beneath me as we rode over them. A Pug meetup and show along the waterfront, one was wearing a pink tutu. A birthday party for a resident goose. The swallows are back. Wisteria and Chinaberry blossoms made the air heady and seductive. I am in love with Austin.

Dinner with friends Saturday night at a neighborhood dig, margherita pizza under the oaks with good wine while the kids scrambled on the lawn and playground. A two-man blues band played in an alcove on the patio. Sunday morning completely disoriented me. The blazing heat, with the loss of an hour, drove me straight into summer. Jogging through our barely-rural neighborhood, grasshoppers zirred past me across the blacktop. The only thing to ground me in April was the fresh, green terrain, littered with half dollar-sized white flowers; everyone’s yard looked like a driving range. Wooly bear caterpillars marched across the road, and a brown tarantula stood paralyzed as I passed it on the curb.

Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won’t take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.

I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it’s good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.

When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn’t squash it.

It’s midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.

A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.

Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won’t take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.

I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it’s good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.

When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn’t squash it.

It’s midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.

A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.

Happy chartreuse puffs have appeared among the evergreens here. Oaks and mesquite are leafing out in between cedars. They look hopeful now, but won’t take long to mature. The little, tender green leaves shine in the sun, denying that they are part of the dense, gnarly, scrubby chaparral.

I take ginger steps along the riparian trail behind the gym. After yoga, it’s good to be outside breathing fresh air, untainted by foot odor and old sweat. The cedar I walk on cuts the grime like a blade, cleansing me. It reminds me of the barn in the morning, fresh shavings cascading out of my wheelbarrow and onto the floor of the stall. In a split second I dodge after noticing a hanging inchworm. My feet reach high over little mounds where squirrels have dug into the mulch, I plod faster. Five shiny, tall brown mushrooms have erupted overnight. The basidiocarps are covered in a cheesy white film, like little newborn babies. I dodge another caterpillar. The creek is flowing steady, after a good rain. Wrens are on alert, surely happy with all the worms. One darts across the path just before me, and disappears into the shadows.

When I have finished my stretching routine on the mat, upstairs in the gym, I look down on my white shirt to notice an aberration: a bright green inchworm with a shiny black head is trying to navigate across my belly. Without thinking, I take my shirt and slingshot it across the room, towards the Cybex machines. Old habits die hard; at least I didn’t squash it.

It’s midnight. I nearly fell asleep at nine but Damon arrived at the bedside with a Coke float. It was delicious, like the ones we sipped in the middle of summer twenty-odd years ago. I remember laughing, in between foamy sips, while watching John MacEnroe chew out the referee during Wimbledon against Jimmy Connors. I was glad for Wimbledon, during siesta time in Beaumont, when the sun shone too hot at midafternoon to hunt for lizards or ride bikes.

A sure sign of the season, a few loony White Wing doves are cooing outside the window. At midnight.

Onions slide around butter in the shiny, black cast iron skillet. I throw in some red peppers, steam rises. It is dark blue outside the window, behind the black silhouettes of leaves. I light a candle on the counter, beside the stove. Next to the candle, the fish glides in a tall column of water, backlit a glowing orange-pink from the lava lamp. Migas, black beans and brown rice. Habanero jack cheese. Strong, dark coffee.

Downtown Austin, 6th street. In the rain, a circe 70s tour bus is parked in front of an old bar. Painted a sandy brown, with a cheesy airbrushed panorama on the side panel: Moab? Hipsters crowd the sidewalks, carrying universal messenger bags and wearing standard issue neutral clothing with close-cropped, tousled hair. Retro eyewear. Shades representing the many faces of a gray day.

The lake today breathed a joyful sigh of peace before spring break arrives, next week, to slosh her with boat fuel, beer and music. Polly and I stood thigh-deep in the cold water, prattling about this and that, while Atticus and Ford rollicked on and off the diving platform. Chas and Tabitha teetered chest-high in the wakes from the occasional ski boats, the water slapped playfully against the banks and the youngsters, who didn’t seem the least appalled. What I thought was a minnow and then maybe a tadpole turned out to be a mayfly larva, swimming like a snake an inch below the surface. As I lifted it out of the water atop my palm, it walked along walked along my hand with surprisingly deft strength against the water’s surface tension. In order to take a closer look, Ford did something I cannot do anymore: he lifted the insect between his fingers and carried it away.

Most children enjoy letting slugs wander across their arms, caterpillars creep over fingers. Dad brought a jar of grasshoppers for the kids to play with last summer. Chas sat and picked them, one by one, out of the jar, letting them crawl all over himself. When I was Ford’s age, I remember picking up insects in this matter-of-fact way. I had Stag beetles, tarantulas, and pet grasshoppers, large, shiny red-on-black grasshoppers that I kept in mason jars. And then one day, I picked up an earthworm. It was cool, pinkish-brown and very long. I wondered at it’s sleekness, imagining that it could stretch to great lengths if it wanted to. So I pulled it gently between my fingers until it cracked in two places, exposing its tragic red insides to me. I remember dropping it, as I have seen Ford abandon his kill, only I felt sick. I still feel sick. I wonder what Ford feels, when his fingers erase another small life. Lifting him over the bank, as we were leaving, I noticed a very small gossamer wing on his arm.
(Sigh.) The mayfly?

It is midnight in early March, and I’m hearing what I can’t bring myself to believe: a mockingbird serenading outside on the telephone pole.

On a Japanese prayer wall, one anonymous child wrote:

I took the boys out for loop around Wild Basin wilderness preserve after lunch. As we unloaded for our walk, we were met by a investigative swarm of yellowjackets. Ford began to freak out as I watched him eyeball three drones on his shirtless body. Not sure what to do, since my hands were tied, I urged him to just be still and watch them explore. I told him to use the opportunity to see them up close, so long as he remained perfectly, perfectly still. Which he did. And the whimpers ceased as he began to comment on their similarity to bees. I have no idea why they were attracted to us. All I can figure is that we smelled too lavendar-y with our herbal sunscreen, and that Ford might have left a little strawberry jam on his face after lunch.
At any rate, once we started on the trail, they lost interest.

The trail crests a ridge that overlooks, um, Wild Basin wilderness. It’s Westlake’s backyard, full of, um, wildlife. Besides the wasps, however, there wasn’t much wildlife awake to greet us on the trail except one lone mockingbird. We did see something new, though. Atop a limestone outcropping laid a half dollar-diameter star-shaped fungus that could have easily been mistaken for a spider: a small sphere, on inspection, had burst to reveal a tiny hole on top; the “legs” were eight radiating, pointy black extensions. I think it was an Earth Star, a type of exploding shroom, and this lesson captivated Ford. Like, the rest of the afternoon. These days, it’s all about explosives and things with bioluminescence.

I brought a heavy and clunky 35mm camera without batteries. The strap irritated my neck, but Chas, in the backpack, seemingly felt sorry enough to pat the back of my head and play with my hair. He occasionally pointed to things and shouted exclamations that we couldn’t understand but agreed with. We felt so jaded on the trail, Ford and I, because it was a very large version of our yard. I guess we were hoping for a water feature or a cave or, um, more wildlife.