|Summer. And maybe a touch of roughhousing.|
Last summer, when I was humongously pregnant with [the-yet-to-be-determined] Susannah, Nora and I had a terrific time. Really. We had picnics every place that featured tables (and some that didn't). There were nature hikes, tamale stand stalkings, and midday naps in my bed (because we couldn't fit into hers).
I was so [beyond] thrilled to be having another baby, of course, but I couldn't shake this sense of sorrow, like- "Well, this is it for Nora n' me," or "No more naps in my future." Which is ridiculous, because Nora and I are ohmystarsthisclose every single day, and sometimes I can swear she's actually hanging from the tag of my shirt. (Especially if I have to return a phone call.)
And I will always- always- make time for naps. (I mean, there's crazy and then there's crazy.)
But then Zuzu was born and things continued to be good. So good. And we've had a pretty banner summer this year, what with all the beachiness, culture we've been foisting into our kids' faces, and even bigger blankets on which to nap. You'd think I'd lose some of my End Of The Season nutsy, right?
Nope. Because, even though I love the Fall and all it stands for (pumpkin patches, more hoodies, and new folders for my Jonathan Brandis Trapper Keeper), I can't help but feel sad that this summer is coming to a close.
Because Susannah isn't going to be a baby next summer. And Nora will be A Kid Who Has Been To School. (We probably won't even have any fun at all.)
It's almost like I believe that each season's close is its ending for good. Like- No More Summer. (Wasn't Summer Nice That One Time?) I try (really, really hard) to remember that, with very few exceptions, each season I've experienced in my adult life just keeps getting nicer than the one that preceded it.
Then I get annoyed at myself for slathering such a saccharine statement all over my psyche. (Then I get mad at my self-bullying. Then I have a sandwich, because by then I'm tired- and I get hungry when I'm sleepy.)
My point is that I'm trying oh-so hard to not hold onto each moment between clenched fists- because's that's no way to live. (And also because I'm holding a sandwich.) And that's not to say that my life is perfect; far from it. I wish we had more money. I wish I wasn't so godawful tired every day. And I wish I didn't have to scramble so hard to keep our home together.
But the girls and Peej? That's the stuff I want more time for. More of this. More of the same with them. Because there's so much atrocious, junky stuff in the world, and I'm [hyper]aware that it could all be gone in an instant. And (God forbid) if it were, I'd think back and want today again. Or last week. Maybe two months ago on a Wednesday. Nora's flyaway blonde curls, covered in sand and peanut butter. Suzy's ecstatic realization that I came to get her out of her crib. (Again!) A backyard beer with P.J., and a peaceful moment to reflect upon our neighbors' colorful rants. I want these moments and I never want to live in a time without them. But each passing season comes with the realization that the past is just that. And if I'm super-beyond-lucky, I'll get more chances. And more days, weeks, summers.
I hope I'm lucky.
I also hope that my kids continue to nap.
And I wouldn't turn down a few more sandwiches, either.