In my body

 In my body I can feel the summer turning to fall.  

The slightest crisp feel to the mornings, a chillier temperature in the evenings. 

I feel like I am elastic.  Stretching. Hanging on to every shred of summer, not wanting it to go, not wanting the seasons to change and for time to march on.  I wish to keep the heat, the way it surrounds and holds me, making me feel  warm and loved.  To keep the bright blue days spent in our pool, the lazy mornings spent eating bowls of cereal and shouting during Fortnite matches.  To keep the peaceful feeling of all six of us home. Together. Safe. 

My heart hurts.  It is heavy and solid.  Gold and shiny.  A weighted thing, carrying all the little worries of a mother sending her brood off into the big, scary world.  Do we have winter coats? Socks without holes? A new backpack? A bundle of freshly sharpened pencils and manners for the teacher? 

Can you put on your coat by yourself? Can you tie your shoes? Do we have enough masks? Will these make your glasses fog up? Have we done haircuts and sports physicals? Back to school night and parent/teacher conferences?

How long can I hold onto you for?

How long until this feels normal?

The youngest is off to kindergarten.  I will be home alone this year. And it's true what they say, time flies.  Walking the aisles at Target and Old Navy yesterday, I had to hold myself back from charging new mothers and accosting them with sage advice about enjoying this moment, and not wasting a second.  "It goes so fast!" I want to say. And yet I know, that at the same time, it can feel so slow.  The months of sleep regression or nightmares.  The weeks of illness, passed child to child, until the whole house has suffered. It's impossible to enjoy every second... yet I want to shake the shoulders of these women who have infants, sleeping, necks crooked, in their strollers and somehow warn them of what's to come.

That was my baby.  Just a minute ago. I point at the bright eyed child singing songs, twirling her dress, in the Barbie aisle, asking if she can get this pack of Barbie accessories. I turned around and now she's five.  She is going to school with her big brother, her backpack as big as she is, her long blond hair in pig tails, a giant smile on her face, but a mask around her neck. What strange, strange times. 

And yet I know that I would feel this way even if it weren't for COVID.  I would feel nostalgic and worried.  Sad and reminiscent.  Proud and scared. 

What am I going to go do with myself all day, everyday, while they are at school? How will I fill my time? But also, I am going TO DO THINGS with MYSELF, ALL DAY, EVERYDAY, WHILE THEY ARE AT SCHOOL (!!!) I WILL FILL MY TIME.  I cannot wait for a chance, after 18 months, to empty the kitchen sink, and have it stay empty.  To wipe a toilet seat, and have it stay dry.  To tidy the family room, and have it stay tidy for more than an hour.  

My heart, that hard, glimmering rock in my chest, aches just as deeply for my older two, as it does for their younger brother and the baby.  Twins, headed off to eighth grade.  Their last year in middle school.  Just three years younger than their father when I met him.  Off to high school next year.  Real life, driving, dating, all looming before us like a shark waiting with its mouth open. 

Next school year, I realize suddenly, I will have a child in elementary school, middle school and high school.  It's mind blowing.  So I take a deep breath.  Steer us away from the sharks open mouth for now, swimming, treading water, and cherishing these last few weeks of summer and our time together.  I am both ready for change, and dreading it. 

So I cling to this quote Kelle Hampton shared from her sister:

"The current is never going to stop flowing.  
You can cling to a rock to avoid it, but it's not going to stop moving.  

You'll die fighting the current. 

Your best chance of surviving is to let go and ride the current... 

swim with it,

 feel the water, 

& let yourself have fun."

Sharks be damned.