I’m not one of those Moms that counts the days until school starts again. I love summer. I love everything about it. I love beach days and sandy toes. I love summer corn and tomatoes and the relegation of Husband to the grill at nearly every dinnertime. I love slathering my children in sunblock and watching the gradual progression of their skin to a golden brown and their hair a golden blonde. I love flip-flops and pedicures people can actually see. Despite my unmatched modesty when it comes to my body, I love short sleeves (aside: hate when people say they’re in “shirt sleeves”) and cute summer skirts and colorful beach cover-ups. I love open windows and ceiling fans and blooming hydrangea. I don’t even complain (much) when it’s 90 degrees and humid and there’s sweat dripping down my back. Because once summer’s gone, there’s fall. And fall is a perfectly wonderful time of year (especially in New England) except for people like me. Because I manage to ruin fall by spending most of it dreading the fact that winter (g-damn winter) is next. And winter sucks.
Yesterday, Husband and I packed up the boys bright and early and headed north to Crane Beach in Ipswich.
Despite the fact that we live in a town littered with beaches, it seemed a fitting trip to round out our summer. We arrived by 9 am (1/2 hour past low tide) and were awed by the expanse of Crane Beach (I hadn’t been since high school). There were tide pools and piping plovers and no more than 100 others on the beach (although it was mobbed by the time we left). Husband, who can’t sit still on the beach for more than 5 minutes at a time, dropped the gear and then took off with the kids to explore and build and romp and splash and left me alone. With my beach chair. And my Kindle. And my happy, happy self.
Ah. Summer.
On the way home we stopped at a local farm stand where I picked up some fresh basil (the best), mozzarella and heirloom tomatoes so ripe and red that I wanted to bite into them on the spot. I dug through piles of local corn for three perfect ears and snagged two crisp apples for the boys in hopes that munching and crunching would stave off the sleep that tugged at their sandy, sun-soaked selves.
Summer.
Next week, school begins. Big Brother heads off to Kindergarten, which is simply not possible. Little Brother will go to pre-school three mornings a week leaving Mom alone to…to what?
Miss them.
Fill out countless back-to-school forms.
Hit the treadmill.
Consider my next move.
Wish it was summer all over again.
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p.s. I’m running in a 5K in two weeks. Which is sort of laughable but whatever. I’m doing it. I have every confidence that I’ll finish. I’m just hoping that when the standings come out in our local papers that my name doesn’t show up dead last. Which is entirely possible in this land of skinny-mini’s…and me. Wish me luck. I will, no doubt, need it.
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Confessions of a Serial Swooper 