I’ve never been a summer girl.
My Labor Day birthday has always made the school year feel like the official start of everything, my life included.
Summer was a time of waiting, of anticipation, of excitedly picking out pens and notebooks and new shoes the closer we got to the end of August. I joke with almost anyone who will listen that I feel like I have reverse Seasonal Affective Disorder, where the heat and sunshine gives me a feeling of weariness. And maybe the combination of Eldest Daughter + Virgo is what makes a stack of new books and a syllabus spark joy and excitement in my heart, but I truly cannot get enough of that early autumn feeling. A literal new page to turn.
There is a melancholy to summer for me, and over the years I have caught myself rushing it—pulling out my jeans from the back of the closet before it’s time while swearing at the heat even though I’m the one inappropriately dressed for the weather.
Summer is slow and dramatic, which feels like a challenge for me, who is usually always looking ahead, focused on the next thing.
I often picture Daisy Buchanan stretched across a daybed in The Great Gatsby, weakly attempting to fan herself, her silk slip clinging to her legs. She is stuck, she is miserable—I do not like her but I do get it.
Now that my kids are school aged, though, I find myself refusing to hurry along these three muggy months. We lose our routine and the laundry piles up and I do sometimes find myself daydreaming of jackets and boots and chilly morning walks to the bus stop; but as soon as my sleepy-eyed daughter wanders downstairs at 7:45 AM and I remember that we have nothing on the schedule except to hang out together, I realize that these slow summer days are a gift I could never wish away.
And while it’s my least favorite season, there is absolutely something so deeply magical about it. The flowers, the fireflies, a hazy campfire and a sticky s’more. Listening to an afternoon thunderstorm on the front porch. The way, when we were younger, it felt like one summer could transform your entire life.
Popsicles and sprinklers. Jelly sandals. A sweaty little hand in mine. An ice cream cone before dinner. Sandwiches and lemonade by the pool. Dirty ankles from running around outside all afternoon. No worries about where they are in their day and if they are having a good time or if they’re hungry or overwhelmed or missing me or wondering if I’m thinking about them (I always am).
The realization that they will never be this little or need you this much ever again, and how bittersweet that is. So I see August on the next page of my calendar and I quickly flip it back to July. Because it’s not time for that yet.
Motherhood has changed me so profoundly these past six and a half years, and it continues to find new and unexpected ways to transform me. From carefree to careful. From slightly sensitive to fully emotional. From counting down the days of summer to clutching them tightly, not ready to let go again just yet.