Autumn.

Autumn is about endings. But these school holidays have been delightful. OMG. Really. I feel like a hobbit. Like, in the opening scenes of "The Fellowship of the Ring"? When the hobbits are living a peaceful life in the Shire, and the ring is just a magic trinket?

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I mean, OK. Solo parenting all day is tough. A couple of times, I have texted Adam with messages like, I’m losing the will to live. And, still? New Zealand is a fairy land. Years pass like days. And this gypsy autumn weather has cast a spell on me.

The past few weeks have been full of (dare I write this)...happiness, the days melting into each other. Five has been charming me, and I've been savouring these last weeks of his baby self.

Yes, it's bittersweet. This may be the last time echoes in the corners of my mind. The last time he lisps, or the last time he wraps his arms around my neck, or the last time he demands my attention, so he can give me a two-hour monologue about his super powers.

I am still the centre of Five’s world, but my time is (rightfully) passing. Soon the influences of school and his mates will change him into a different (and equally wonderful) little person.

But, until then? After crisp mornings, these delicious, nearly hot days. I want to gather them up like brightly colored eggs, and stuff them in my basket.

Fertility symbols in autumn. It doesn't need to make sense.

The rituals of this new season, with Easter chocolate (everything is better with chocolate) and hot cross buns.

Going for a wander under pale blue skies.

Civic Square, Wellington

A visit to the museum.

A giant leap for science at Te Papa.

By a calm sea. Putting on his wetsuit and going for a swim, or just lying in the warm sand on the beach.

Looking towards Kapiti Island.

Longer and colder nights, under cosy quilts. Ordering firewood, and conjuring up a few fires in the woodburner.

The woodburner. For the next few months, we will be best mates.

Five playing with his cousins and his mates. Learning to ride his bike on two wheels—his earnest, little wobble. Going for bike rides in the grassy acres of the park, or all the way down to the train station.

And riding the miniature trains in the Marine Gardens.

Funny old men drive the trains at the Marine Gardens.

Packing away our summer clothes, and buying new gum boots, rain jackets, and slippers. Playing board games. Cuddling and reading books.

Watching cartoons and movies together.

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A hearty new menu of soups and roasts, and pumpkin and potato, and apples and pears, cakes and crumbles, and soon feijoas.

Blueberry rhubarb crumble. It's what's for breakfast.

It's like a book I don't want to finish. My life is beautiful. I am blessed, and I am grateful.

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Want to see more photos of my life (over the years) in rural New Zealand? Check me out on Flickr.

Going to school.

In New Zealand, you start going to school after you turn five years old. That's right. The day after your fifth birthday. (Don't ask me. I guess it's a British thing.)

When you start school, you are called a new entrant. I gather that the new entrants' class is like kindergarten in the US. (I just don't get the NZ school system.) But you stay at school from 9AM until 3PM. (The entire day.) This seems long for a five-year-old. I mean, just look at the little boy in the photo. Can you believe anyone that little goes to school?

Anyway, the child is almost five years old. I should give him a pseudonym. Like, Elvis. (It's not a dumb name. I don't care what my husband says.) For the last few Fridays, Elvis has been going on school visits. He's doing so well. And I love his teacher, which is a plus. (I hope it's a love that will last. Maybe I should bring her chocolates.)

The big surprise? The transition to school has been difficult. For me. (You're surprised, right?) I’m happy for Elvis. I'm so proud of him, as he achieves this next step towards independence. But, at the same time, I feel depressed. I used to hear about the empty nest, and I thought it was dumb. (Of course, I was a teenager. I thought everything was dumb.) The first time I dropped Elvis off at school, I cried.

I feel better now. But why does everyone tell you parenting gets easier? They LIE. (Unless you, reader, are a new parent. Then, it’s true. It gets easier. Really!)

I'm overwhelmed.

In my last post, I wrote:

I am far behind in my life. I am caught in quicksand. Would someone please haul me out of here? I need to do a million things, and it's overwhelming. I'm sinking!

But I deleted that paragraph. It just seemed too whingey. Or too personal. I don't want to admit that I’m overwhelmed. And I don't really need to be rescued.

There is a lot going on at Wellington Road. The child is about to start school (another post), we have a birthday party to plan, other social obligations on the calendar, gifts to buy, financial challenges. Autumn is here, and there are chores to do. You know, life.

So, yeah (yawn). I’m overwhelmed. I don’t want to break down tasks into steps, and tick items off a To-Do list. I just want to stay in bed and read your blog. (Yes, yours.) Or chat with you on Facebook. (Yes, you.) Or hang out on Twitter. (I love you, Twitter.) I'm depressed. What happened to summer?

And do you remember when I wrote that post? About the big 'D'? Well, it’s time for an update:

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You keep talking to people. If you bring it up yourself, it is OK. But if someone else brings it up? An acquaintance, who you may, or may not, have talked to first? (You don’t really remember. You wonder if she reads your blog.) This person forces you to talk about it, even if you don’t feel like talking. Awkward. And people ask, is there anything we can do? To help? Like babysit? Which is nice, right? But it feels intrusive. Because you aren't even separated yet. And you are all, if I need help, I will ask for it. But you say this gently. Because you are more surprised than angry. Isn't this what you wanted? To talk about it? When the child acts like a monster, people say, he’s acting like that because of problems at home. And you say, I don’t think so. And you don’t.

You realize you don’t want to talk about your marital problems. You understand why it’s a taboo subject. People bring their own baggage to the conversation. So you only talk about it with your therapist, behind closed doors. And you keep a stiff upper lip as you go about your life. Especially if you live in a little village in New Zealand that is prone to gossip. Also, your family doesn't want to talk about your problems. This may be a good thing. You pretend that everything is OK. You carry on a facade. You fake it. Which is what everyone does, from time to time, in marriage. (Isn't it?) But it's difficult for you, and not only because you are a lousy actress.

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Adam and I are still talking. He wants to work on things, bless him. I am still doubting. But we have put the issue on hold. For now. We are still married. We are still living together.

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Maybe this is what you sometimes do in a marriage. If you need to deal with a life transition.