A Tuesday in March…

On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, I teach at a nearby preschool program. It’s only my second year, and I had every intention of staying several years. Yet again, my teaching resume will show another short stint. It’s never my plan to stay just three years, but it’s happened often enough that I’m starting to accept it as part of who I am.

I’m someone who moves regularly and changes roles. On a bad day, I worry it looks less like flexibility and more like flakiness. On a good day, I trust that I’ve made thoughtful choices while keeping in mind that life is short, so I want to balance adventure, connection, and using my talents. That line from report cards—“Uses time wisely”—is a phrase that has always stuck with me.

So anyway, it’s a Tuesday, and my coworker—who I clicked with right away—tells me they’ve likely found my replacement. I’m relieved the program won’t be left scrambling, but there’s still a flicker of sadness about my own choice.

I love this school: the light-filled building, the view of the Flatirons, the fact that I’ve never had to buy my own materials (a rare gift in teaching). But what I’ll miss most are the people—smart, caring, and genuinely fun to be around. Time moves differently beside 3- and 4-year-olds—they notice roly-polies, flowers, and all things emerging in spring. Lucky me, I get to experience it alongside them.

After work, I come home to find my boys listening to an audiobook together. They’ve already done their morning work—Spanish, piano, soccer juggling, reading, and math. They even cleaned up the backyard and rearranged the patio furniture for more outdoor time.

I toss chicken and rice in the crockpot, we read a few chapters together, and then head to our park day meetup.

Most Tuesdays, we gather with a group of wonderful homeschooling families. The moms are easy to talk to—we walk laps, swapping book recommendations and encouragement. The conversations wander, and I always leave feeling refreshed. Today was chilly and almost unpleasant, but the walking and talking filled my bucket. Watching the boys play groundies, try tricks on the zipline, and bounce between basketball and soccer makes me so happy.

And then the thought comes: What am I doing? Why am I leaving this?

Lately, I’ve been practicing seeing that as just a thought—like a little fish swimming through the pond of my mind. I can notice it, say hello, and let it pass. If a whole school showed up every day shouting WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!—maybe I’d reconsider. But for now, when I check in with myself, I still feel confident in our decision to give Spain a try.

After our two-hour “recess,” we head home for a few more chapters. We make granola chocolate chip protein balls (though we added too much honey, so they ended up pressed into a pan this time). Will heads to soccer with Chris, and Colin works on a Minecraft song on the piano. I read until it’s time for swim practice.

While he swims, I run into Walmart for pet cleaning supplies. I notice all the usual temptations—candles, blankets, organizing bins—but I don’t need any of it. I leave with just what I came for, which feels… different. Moving is helping me be more honest about wants versus needs, and I’m looking forward to downsizing even more.

Back home, Will is icing his ankle—his first minor injury, a sprain that’ll need taping for a few weeks. I pick up Colin, who happily fills me in on post-practice conversations. He’s always in a great mood after a long swim.

There’s just enough time for dessert and an audiobook with Chris before bed.

In many ways, it’s a completely ordinary Tuesday. And yet, it feels more precious.

I took a video of the boys chatting before bed, and they teased me for recording “for no reason.” I told them I know I’ll miss these 11- and 9-year-old versions of them someday. They goofed off after that—but I know future Maggie will be grateful to see a few minutes of this totally normal Tuesday.