“Ah, summer what power you have to make us suffer and like it.” ~ Russell Baker
“Tomorrow at this time it will all be over,” my Nana used to say every year at some point on Christmas Day. I hated that.
School starts in the morning, and as I counted down the weeks, which quickly became days, and today the days became hours, I didn’t utter a word to my brood, but every bone in my bone was aching with, It’s over, summer’s gone…
No more late-night canasta lessons (the grandparents taught the twins and they’re teaching us), no more pancakes in our pajamas at nine-thirty, no reading marathons that go on all afternoon. We’ve gone through four cans of sunscreen spray and gallons of ice cream and half a box of Band-Aids, and we’re the richer for it.
Usually I am the mom who watches the school bus pull away, trying not to do a victory dance right there in the driveway. Summer with three kids, one of them with special needs, can be tricky, to say the least. This is especially true for a mother who loves to write to the sound of a clock ticking on the mantel and take long walks alone and can’t stand tripping over toys all over the floor. And I’m no fan of hot and humid—who is by the end of August?
While this summer started the same as the others, with tantrums in the park and quarrels over chores and me frazzled by eight each morning, somewhere in the neighborhood of July all that gave way to what we ended up with.
Sadie got happy-go-luckier, and witnessing her giggles and delighted little sounds while she eats and announcing her presence in a room by jumping up and down or spinning around is like watching the sunrise—all very fresh from God. The twins started asking how they could help and volunteering to get Sadie up from naps, bathe her, help her eat breakfast. Apparently they can’t keep their eyes—or hands—off her, either.
New routines clicked into place, and they weren’t all about me doing all the work. They weren’t about perfectly picked-up rooms or gourmet meals all the time, either. For once, the trains didn’t have to run on time. And I wasn’t Mussolini.
But off they go tomorrow, and something ends. I hope it’s just dates on the calendar changing, schedules, a different rhythm, but not us. Not me. I want to hold on to holding on to moments and ruminating over old ones instead of always rushing toward the next, living and dying over my to-do list that sits on the kitchen counter. Tomorrow there’s no list, and The Spouse and I are going on a picnic.
Tuesday’s a different story: a dentist appointment, a visit from an insurance appraiser, and a list a mile long that I made earlier this evening. At least it’s in the drawer. Baby steps.