at noon.

David left bright and early this morning for a day-long trip with some of the men he works with, and I found myself with Thursday stretching out before us, just the kids and me.

Amie and I spent a quiet morning at home while Judah was in preschool, then at 11:20 we set out on the ten-minute walk to pick him up.

It is mid-January and already our winter is slipping away from us.  The mornings are still cool, but at nearly noon the sun was blazing white-hot.  Amie stuck to me in the Ergo, and sweat dripped down my back, but the stiff spring breeze felt good on my face and in my hair, and I thanked God for warm weather in January, which my soul embraces like my childhood Barbados or my Florida-home.

Our walk to the preschool takes us through our bustling neighborhood, past corner shops and supermarkets and construction work, across three busy streets, and right by the fruit stand where David buys our pineapples.  The dust curls up in between my toes and coats the hem of my jeans and I pass people with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses and know that South Asians don’t like the dust any more than I do.

There are people everywhere, as far as I can see.  You never feel alone in our city, which can be a very irritating thing, but also a nice thing when you’re a woman out and about on your own.  I remember talking to a lady on the subway in NYC this summer, and she said, “I hate the suburbs – it is so quiet there at night and very dangerous.”  I had to laugh, thinking that most of us in the suburbs would consider boisterous, ethnic upper- Manhattan to be dangerous.

But I think I know how she feels.  City life – with all its noise and dirt and people – does make me feel safe.  Especially here in this city, where people have no qualms about inquiring into your business, asking what you’re up to or how much money you make or why your child was crying on the way to school.  I guess you could call it nosy, but I find it endearing.

Judah cried when I dropped him at school this morning, but was happy as can be when Amie and I picked him up.  Yesterday they worked on writing the letter “A.”  Today they played soccer and basketball and did puzzles.

Walking back to our apartment building takes four times as long with a meandering three-year-old, and there are about one million things to distract on the way.  But I am thankful that he is gaining confidence here and now walks most of the way rather than crying to be carried.

To Judah, every pot-hole or jagged crack or trash heap on the sidewalk is an adventure.  He likes to stop for tractors and rickety painted trucks – to inspect and to wonder what goods they are carrying (“Maybe milk, Mommy?”), and for all construction projects.  I don’t think safety cones or security tape exist here, so Judah can walk right up to a cavernous clay hole in the road and watch the digger at work.  He creeps very slowly past sweet shops just in case he finds himself able to pick out some candy (“Gems”, the South Asian version of M&M’s are his favorite).

Today we stopped halfway home at a cafe at the corner of the busy intersection in our neighborhood, for a snack.  The little cafe has three walls and the fourth is wide open to the world, letting in a breeze which is nice since there is no a.c.  The floors are cement, the walls are filled with local art, and there is a hodge-podge of low tables and chairs – even a futon.  It was quiet at just before noon, with a couple chatting in the corner booth, and the manager sitting reading a paper.

Judah chose our table, and we ordered two donuts and a brownie, and I tried to explain to the employees that I wanted them all “cold.”  People here cannot fathom that you wouldn’t heat any baked good in the microwave and serve it piping hot, and the men behind the counter gave me blank looks when I asked for our snacks at room temperature (“Cold, please.  Don’t heat.”). Five minutes later someone brought out our steaming hot orders, with knives and forks and all chocolate melted and running off the sides.  If you have toddlers you can understand why this might be a problem, and before long Judah and Amie were literally coated with gooey chocolate, from head to (in Amie’s case) Crocs.

A friend met us there after awhile, and the two of us sipped coffee – a latte for me and espresso for her –  while the kids, wet-wiped clean from their snack, had free run of the place and the devoted attention of every employee there.  We ordered a round of french fries and chatted until nearly one, when we had to rush home for Anju to come clean, first our place and then hers.

Our days here have fallen into the rhythm of preschool drop-offs and pick-ups and Anju working from one to three and afternoon naps.  Then, it’s time to make dinner and go to the playground for an hour.

Everyday routines can be mundane, but they are also a comfort when the world is so big and strange.  I feel myself able to spend a day alone with my children, to follow these becoming-familiar rhythms, and not just survive, but also to sit and sip coffee and laugh with a friend, and notice the bright new world around us.

It is days like these that I think, “We are going to be okay.”