The February calendar, always shorter than the other months, stands a little taller this year.
It is a leap year.
I confess I must visit Google to remember the exact purpose of leap years. (I suppose it is unsurprising I have forgotten; I have forgotten many things during my seven years of motherhood. Most days, I am simply trying to remember where my children have placed their shoes.)
“Why do we have leap years” I type. I do not bother with a question mark.
Before I hit send, another question meets me—the same one that arises every time I look to my phone instead of my brain for an answer:
Have I lost my sense of wonder?
The question slips through my consciousness at the speed of 400 megabits per second. I do not have time for existential pondering; it is 2020, after all, and I have the superpower of making information appear at my fingertips.
The answer magically appears on the screen. Ah, yes—the rotation of the earth does not line up perfectly with 24-hour days. Leap years are a matter of astronomy and practicality—a safeguard against February slowly shifting its way from winter, into spring or summer.
(Most moms I know would be just fine with February leaping into spring or summer, but the calendar makers did not consult us, did they?)
I put my phone down and pause for a moment. I try to imagine a leaping year.
I picture my daughter after ballet class, showing me how she can gallop. She leaps across the room in her new leotard (soon to be stained by a blue raspberry slush from Sonic) and twirls herself towards the mirror, admiring her Elsa-style braid. She does not need to know that there are 366 days this year, for every day of her life is a musical—one where Alexa plays Frozen songs requested by her and her brother on a regular loop.
I also imagine my son, who, since the start of football season—and especially since that Chiefs victory—has not stopped throwing a football in the air, leaping up to catch it, and running into the kitchen for a … “touchdown!” He often whispers this announcement under his breath, lost in a future full of storied wins and last-second plays.
As both of my kids twirl and run (and climb and bounce and crawl) circles around me, I assume the role of keeping us all tethered to the calendar. Or, I should say, I try. I am constantly working to remember if it is a uniform day or casual day, a bring-your-book day or bring-a-snack day, if we have any vegetables in the fridge today, or if we have any clean clothes to wear to work and school today.
Most days, I am shuffling and scrambling much more than I am leaping. I try to remain steady while everyone runs their orbits, but I am an unreliable sun.
But, of course. I am human. I am not intended to simply serve as the steady point in a complex system. Like my children, I need to create and lose myself in imaginary worlds at times, too. Yet I always fear I am growing less useful every time I unwind myself from the ticking clock and glowing screen.
Sometimes, I stare out the window for too long and burn whatever is on the stove. I roam into the tiny chapel near my daughter’s preschool to pray and think, then fall behind on email. I play the piano after dinner instead of packing backpacks and lunches, and then we must all scramble a little extra in the morning to get out the door.
The real world does not always reward my adult version of leaping. If there is one extra day in the year, isn’t there just one more day to send emails, rack up a lengthy list of to-dos, and make sure my kids have clean clothes?
I know Leap Day is intended as a form of catch-up; a day for the earth to move a little farther around the sun, time for the seasons and months to get in step–and maybe even time for busy moms to squeeze in an extra load of laundry.
But as I watch my children daily leaping and exploring, I cannot help but think they understand how to spend extra time on the calendar better than I do.
My superpower of finding information with my fingertips can uncover why we have leap years, but it cannot tell me how many of them I will get to experience in my lifetime; it cannot tell me how many times my daughter will twirl across the floor or how many touchdowns my son will catch in our kitchen.
So, as this year stretches a little taller, I am trying to stretch my imagination, too. Taking a cue from my children, I momentarily forsake my glowing screen and my calendar, join my children in their imaginary worlds, and leap further into wonder.
