March used to mean puddles.
Not metaphorical ones. Real, muddy, sun-warmed puddles that gathered at the edge of the driveway and along the sidewalk where winter finally loosened its grip. Back then, March arrived in the form of rain boots lined up by the door, jackets half-zipped, and three small voices asking, “Can we go outside?” before breakfast dishes were even cleared.
Puddles were the plan.
No schedule. No rush. Just the quiet promise of water waiting to be splashed.
Then: Puddle Boots and Sticky Hands
There was a time when getting ready to go outside took longer than the actual outing. Three pairs of boots. Three mismatched gloves. One child insisting they didn’t need a coat, another insisting on wearing a Minnie Mouse costume with the coat, and someone always crying because their socks “feel weird.”
And still—we went.
Because March, in those years, wasn’t about productivity or plans. It was about thawing. About stepping outside after a long winter and letting the air wake you up again.
They would run ahead, always. Drawn to water like it was something magical, something new. The puddles weren’t obstacles—they were invitations. They stomped with full force, laughing when muddy water splashed up their legs. They crouched low, poking at the edges with sticks, watching ripples spread like they had discovered something no one else had ever seen.
And their hands—always sticky. From snacks eaten mid-adventure. From damp gloves. From whatever mysterious combination of dirt and childhood they carried with them.
I remember thinking it was messy.
I remember wishing, sometimes, for cleaner floors. For less laundry. For fewer wet socks left in places they absolutely did not belong.
I did not yet understand that this was the good part.
Now: Group Texts and Sports Bags
March still comes, of course. It always does.
But now it arrives differently.
Now it looks like sports bags by the door instead of boots. It sounds like notifications buzzing from phones instead of laughter echoing off the sidewalk. It feels like checking schedules, coordinating rides, and asking, “What time does practice end?” instead of “Do you need help putting your boots on?”
They still go outside.
But now it’s to leave.
To practices. To games. To meet friends. To move further out into a world that is slowly, steadily becoming their own.
The puddles are still there—I notice them sometimes when I walk to the mailbox or glance out the window. But no one is asking to splash in them anymore. No one is crouching to watch the water ripple. No one is coming back inside soaked and grinning, holding out muddy hands like proof of something wonderful.
Now they come home tired. Hungry. Sometimes quiet.
They drop their bags in the same place their boots used to land. They move through the house differently—longer strides, heavier footsteps, more purpose. Less lingering.
And yet.
Sometimes, when the light hits just right in the late afternoon, I catch a glimpse of who they were. A laugh that sounds younger than it should. A quick shove between siblings that turns into something playful. A moment on the couch where they lean in without thinking.
It’s still there.
Just… quieter.
The In-Between of It All
March has always been a month of in-between. Winter not quite finished. Spring not fully arrived. And maybe that’s why it feels like such an honest mirror of this stage of parenting.
They are not little anymore. But they are not grown.
They are somewhere in the middle—muddy and changing and unsure of where to step next.
And so are we.
There is a temptation, in this season, to look backward too often. To measure everything against what it used to be. To ache for puddle boots and sticky hands and the kind of days that unfolded slowly, without a clock.
But there is also something unfolding here, too. Something just as meaningful. They are learning who they are.
They are finding their footing in deeper waters now—friendships, responsibilities, independence. The puddles have grown, even if we can’t always see them.
And our role has shifted. We are no longer the ones zipping coats and pulling on boots. We are the ones waiting at the door.
What Remains
The house is different now. Quieter in some ways. Louder in others.
There are fewer muddy footprints on the floor—but more shoes lined up by the wall, each pair carrying them further into their own lives. There are fewer sticky hands reaching for mine—but more moments where they choose, quietly, to sit beside me anyway.
And I am learning to see this season not as a loss, but as a continuation. Because those puddle days didn’t disappear.
They built something.
They built kids who are curious. Who are brave enough to step into things, even when they don’t know how deep the water goes. Who once ran toward the mess without hesitation—and maybe, just maybe, still do in ways I can’t always see.
If I Could Go Back (But Not Stay)
If I could go back to one of those March afternoons, I would. I would let them splash longer. I would worry less about the laundry.
I would take more pictures, yes—but more than that, I would stand still and really see it. The way their boots barely stayed on. The way their laughter carried. The way they looked at the world like it was something to be explored, not managed.
But I wouldn’t stay there.
Because this version of them—the ones with sports bags and group texts and growing independence—is just as real. Just as important. Just as worthy of being noticed.
March, Still
March still means puddles. They’re just not always on the driveway anymore.
Sometimes they look like long conversations after practice. Sometimes they sound like laughter from behind a closed bedroom door. Sometimes they feel like letting go, just a little more, and trusting that what you’ve built will hold.
The boots may be gone. The hands may be cleaner. But the becoming?
That’s still as messy—and as beautiful—as it’s ever been.
Fry, Party of Five 
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