The last month has begun. The last month of no school, the last month of having a four-year-old, the last month of summer. We’ve had a four year old or a three year old or a two year old or a baby in our house for the past fourteen years, so this is truly the end of an era. Weirdly, I’m not too sad about it.
I’m nostalgic already and when I look at pictures of the children at younger ages, I can forget how they were whiny and prone to tantrums. I can almost forget how one of the teenagers used to spit his medicine back into my face whenever I dared to medicate him. They were so adorable in those pre-acne days. I used to love that whole bathtime-jammies-in-bed-at-eight thing we had going on. (Teenagers, did you know? They stay up late and sleep in if possible . . . they are so much like hibernating bears.)
My daughter begged me to take her to Target today. “Why?” I said. “What do you want to buy?” She explained, “I need some new summer clothes. I want orange shorts and an orange shirt with a star.”We did not go to Target, much to her chagrin. That child loves to shop and wear cute shoes, even if they hurt her feet.
Blogging about a life featuring laundry and empty milk cartons in the fridge is a challenge some days. Perhaps I could tell you how the boys are still nailing cast-off pieces of wood in the back yard? My son came in, flushed, excited to tell me that Dennis, our neighbor down the street gave them yet more wood. (Dennis has people drop off scrap wood at his house all the time . . . then he burns it in his wood stove all winter. The wood supply is endless, so I had to say, “NO MORE WOOD!”)
Or I could tell you my 9-year old is playing football . . . and they practice every single night. My husband takes him, but still. I find no joy in daily sports practices, having grown up in a household with no interest in sports whatsoever. (I played softball as a girl and my parents never attended my games. I ran track only until seventh grade when I realized all the boys were studying me bounce and jiggle around the track.)
I could mention that I keep making all these plans for my evenings, but after getting up at 6:15 a.m. to walk each morning, by 9 p.m., I’ve got nothing left. I’m like a bicycle with a chain that keeps derailing. Hard to make progress when you can’t pedal!
But that would be boring to blog about.