This same time, years previous: the summer’s first trip, smash hit, creamy cauliflower sauce, when the wind blew, our 48-hour date, the big apple, berry almond baked oatmeal, linguine with shrimp and lime-cilantro pesto, spaghetti with Swiss chard, raisins, and almonds, cottage potatoes, and homemade yogurt.

Yesterday the spine doctor gave the green light for my son to begin weaning himself off the brace. We waited until we got home for The Great Un-shelling.

It’s pretty weird, seeing him walking around without the hard plastic coating he’s been wearing for the last two months. He hasn’t bent or twisted his back since April 24. (Go on, click the link. That photo compared to the one above? My throat tightens just looking at it. He’s come such a long way.)

The first time my older daughter saw him twist from side to side, she shrieked and covered her eyes.

You can see the lump in his back from the break. Running my hand down his spine gives me the willies.

He’s moving slowly, gingerly. He says he feels stiff, but fine. His lower back is what hurts, if anything. Probably from lack of use. After a few days, he’ll no longer wear the brace at all, but he can still only lift ten pounds for the next four weeks. At that point, his bones should be eighty percent healed (it will take up to two years for the them to heal completely) and he will have resumed all ordinary activity, aside from super heavy lifting and running.

Next up: eye surgery!

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.30.14), blueberry pie, drying apricots, baby bunnies, and work.

It used to be that the kids would wake early. Now, not so much.

These days it’s me and my husband that get up early. We run, shower, and visit. He makes his lunch and eats breakfast while I fix my coffee and turn on the computer. He goes to work. I write. After awhile I’ll realize it’s going on 9 o’clock and I really should get the kids up if I want them to have time to eat breakfast before lunch.

Upstairs, I cut off the noise machine and push open doors. Sometimes they’re already awake, curled under the covers reading a book. But other times they’re still sound asleep. “Time to get up,” I’ll whisper, taking care to stay out of range of their dragon breath.

They groan, scratch, mash their retainers with their teeth, pull the blankets over their heads.

“Come on. Up now.” I’m no longer whispering. “It’s time for breakfast. Be downstairs in five minutes.”

I walk out, leaving their doors open in hopes that my clattering will keep them from slipping back into dreamland.

This same time, years previous: fútbol, goat cheese whipped cream, red beet greens, and patting myself on the back.