Red light. Green light.

The red glow of the stoplight illuminates your face in this late October darkness. I’m in my car. You’re in yours. The two car seats in your back seat are empty. I imagine the bags of groceries in the hatchback of your white Subaru: granola, yogurt, milk, apples, broccoli, juice boxes, hopefully a bar of chocolate, perhaps a bottle of Tempranillo. I see you reach for the radio dial, then drop your hand into your lap. I imagine you flipping the radio station from the news, to music, to full silence. You’re still for a moment, then you dip your head forward toward the steering wheel, turn it first to the left then to the right, then pull your hand back from the steering wheel and place it on the base of your skull. You draw your fingers down your neck, across your shoulder, while rolling your head toward your chest. For an instant, your eyes are closed.

Noticing you, I feel my own shoulders drop a half a centimeter. I did not know I had been holding them so tightly but glimpsing you in your world beside me in mine, I remember how to take this moment. Your slow succumb to gravity: chin to chest, fingers to neck, are an inspiration and a solace to me. My hands are now also off the steering wheel. In this moment I’m not driving anywhere.

As mothers, I see us tugged and pulled into shapes we no longer recognize. The demands are constant: endless and joyful—yes, but also sometimes just heavy. I find myself asking often enough how might I make this moment more than it feels? How can I slip out from behind the to-do list and simply care? For myself? For my son?

The red light turns to green, and you lift your head. I see your chest rise, then fall with a deep breath. Your hand is back to the steering wheel and you’re pressing your foot on gas pedal. I’m seconds behind you, slower to return to movement. I lift my own head, straighten my back and place my hands on the steering wheel. I drive home just under the speed limit and when I walk inside, my arms are open wide to the hurtling warmth of my son’s love.