Summer is here all right. On the solstice, that big moon shone and the sky held its deepening grey-blue hue that last iota longer enough to have it sink in that the light had stretched itself like a really gorgeously long limb, the muscle giving long, light days its miraculous all. Schools are out, all of ‘em. Strawberries are plentiful, blueberries and corn just ahead. Silkily-petal flowers and sturdy ones abound, rainbows via blooms. The yucca flowered above my head. July is no longer an ideal; it’s next week.
I have such conflicting emotions about summer. What I mean is I love it. I love light so much more than darkness; I love salads that taste lively—name me one thing better than fiery arugula and mild Hakurei turnips yin -yanging in one’s mouth—and I love being near water—lake, pool, ocean, wherever—and getting wet until I feel a tiny bit chilled on a hot day. I can go on and on with my what-I-love-about-summer list. I love no homework. I love days that have no forward motion… Oh, but I love to write, I love quiet—which I tend to rely upon finding through routine, as in, when the kids are in school, the mama can work (I work at home)—and I love that sense of days with forward motion. So I’m not really cut out for the do-nothing variety of summer, however drawn to it I am in theory.
This week, however, the dear husband is off at a Rare Book School conference (he’s an antiquarian book dealer and no, he does not sell his books over the Internet; his Cumberland Rare Books doesn’t have a website, even). He’s busy with special collections librarians and book dealers and collectors, thinking about things pertaining to books as objects I barely fathom even possibly considering. He took our twelve year-old along to Philly (conveniently, his meeting and the grandparents sync up in one fine city). While husband does whatever exactly people do at Rare Book School, my twelve year-old gets to enjoy some quality grandparent time (and simultaneously, he’s having a tiny taste of my childhood by splitting his visit between households: two days with my mother and stepfather, two with my father and stepmother).
I’ve written before about how my second guy, even though he’s number two out of four, became—when he moved from second of two to second of three—the middle one (just like Bunbun) and remained so even with the arrival of his caboose sister. Like Bunbun, Lulu “sings the loudest” and sometimes, too, “is the muddled one.” He brings so much joy and life into the household, passion and gourmet food, avid reportage of World Cup and other sporting events, smart thoughts on politics and musings on the latest recipes.
Anyway, this week, with them away, it’s quieter here. I’ve had zero battles over meal preparations (in truth, I’ve had two nights with just one or two kids, the youngest two, so that meant oatmeal one evening, rice and tofu and sugar snap peas another; we’ve filled the dishwasher once in three days, since the teen was sleeping over at a friend’s house for two of them). I have to admit, I feel as if I’m practically on vacation at my own house with my own routine and fewer than average children. I mean, sure, I’m working (and working well). Sure, I’m caring for three children on my own. Sure, it’s not really vacation, but it is a vacation from the high stimulation of a house-full. We’re at two-thirds and while responsibility for three kids is on me, I have no expectations that someone else will clean the kitchen or help with bedtime or put the lunches into the lunch sacs or get them where they need to go. So, calmly and without calling out for help, I just do it (add Nike swish).
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Just like summer, I wouldn’t want it to be this way always. I miss the dear husband and my personal Bunbun. I miss the house-full. But I am glad to have this few days right up front, as we’re getting used to making transitions—the preschool to its summer session, the three week camp-at-school program winding up—to remind me that while I am uncomfortable with lots of transitions (another definition for summer, after all), I stand to benefit from riding the waves and discovering, like the mild turnips and the biting arugula, some new tastes and surprisingly delightful combinations that can only come by embracing the season, in all its just-beginning-to-let-light-ebb glory.
I welcome the challenges, too. For example, the seven year-old will go off (his request) to overnight camp, and I’ll really miss him. Two weeks is longer than I’ve been separated from any of my kids (and he was my smallest baby for over five years, that’s a long while of my-baby). I’m also already bursting with pride that he wants to go, excitement for the fun I know he’s going to have and besides, I am finally going to get to write one of my kids at overnight camp, having practiced for years on friends’ kids. And if I’m not eagerly anticipating bored and whiny days, I know those are an important part of summer, because when you push past that stuck place you discover good stuff. Perhaps, boredom is old-fashioned in our fast-paced world and I think it’s really important to experience. We’ll have two new schools in the fall, and so I also anticipate (and not eagerly) some major anxiety rocking our household. Again, even though it may not be fun to deal with those transitions, weathering change is also a critical experience and I hope we can figure out how to help support our kids really well through c-c-c-changes.
For the record, I don’t want to be all work and no play. I have a major amount of blueberry picking ahead, a few things I can’t wait to do in the Berkshires, a road trip to Jamaica Plain to see my nephew’s new teeth, and on. I really want to relish the relaxed industry of making and enjoying summer fun. Oh, and now there’s GoBerry in Northampton! The walk downtown or ride to town option as a berry good activity option moves to the front of the summer list. Mmmm.
