everyday life

Last week Grace and I were sitting in the car with her friend who we had driven home from camp. We were waiting to drop her off and of course I was early so we had a few minutes to kill. Grace wanted to show Jessie a particular picture (I can’t remember which one) so I handed them my iphone. They scrolled through all the pictures I have on it (which isn’t actually that many, I seem to be the only person I know who deletes photographs after uploading them!).

Grace and her friend starting giggling and I turned around to look at them.

“What?” I asked. They looked at the screen, not at me (preview of things to come, surely). “Seriously, what?”

“Nothing, Mum,” Grace said with a newly dismissive tone that has crept into her voice lately.

“Grace, your mum takes pictures of everything!” Grace’s friend said, not unkindly, more in surprise.

“She does. This isn’t even the half of it. She takes pictures of the sky a lot, and Legos Whit builds, and my art, and shoes, and our backs, and shadows, and glasses on the table and … wow, yes, she does!” Grace trailed off.

Yes, I do. I take tons of pictures of little random moments in our lives that I don’t want to forget. These images can hold as much potent memory as the more traditional ones that I often show here, of Grace and Whit, smiling at the camera, together or apart. These seemingly random glimpses of inanimate things can reawaken for me all of the emphermal details of the experience, of who precisely I was at that specific moment. So yes, I do take pictures of “everything,” and wow, oh wow, am I grateful for that.

Hadley’s beautiful faded pink-gray hydrangeas.

Favors for Whit’s 3rd birthday party (personalized plates with each child’s name and a drawing of a clown) all wrapped up the night before.

Sparkling rose, Diet Coke, and water, all lined up, at a celebratory lunch with Bouff.

Spring peonies on my kitchen island.

A breathtaking late summer sunset.

My feet standing in the lapping waves at the shore of the Marion beach.

My shadow, with Grace and Whit on either side of me, cast against the concrete path behind my in-laws’ house in Florida.

A dandelion, just proffered with enthusiastic affection by Whit.

Grace’s overnight bag, packed for a sleepover, half of which is taken up by her two well-worn, deeply-loved bears (creatively named Brown Bear and Yellow Bear).

Two bright buckets.

An ornament that I had made for the Christmas that Grace was just one, that she had just hung on the 2009 Christmas tree.

The scatter of yellow leaves on a wet autumn pavement.

Must Stop Myself. I could bore you with hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs like these.

In truth, the random photographs like these are often just as evocative (and sometimes more so) than the more traditional family and friend photographs.

The words haven’t come back. Sadly, there’s no sign of them. What I have instead is this ordinary life, full of early-waking children (and late-sleeping children, one of each), fresh herbs, blooming flowers, wild afternoon thunderstorms, red shoes, and both laughter and tears in every single day. And lots of pictures.

We really mixed things up today for tennis camp at Casa ADSV, as you can see. Whit wanted to wear all red. His tee shirt says “the muddy puddles,” which was the name his soccer team came up for for themselves last fall. I think this is the best team name of all time. They competed against the dragon thises and the leopard thats. Fierce they were not, but those puddles, boy did they enjoy splashing around. Whit observed that he was hot sauce today, but that unfortunately he was not wearing hot sauce shoes.

He was delighted, however, that I had hot sauce shoes on (also, the veiniest feet on the planet. My arms are like that too. Gross, eh?)

While the kids were at tennis camp, I met a friend for coffee. And the universe had a treat in store for me – sitting right there, visiting my very own neighborhood, was the indescribably wise and brilliant Katrina Kenison. Even better? We recognized each other. Sometimes, I feel that invisible hand guiding me to safety, rather than pushing me to more challenge and risk. This was one of those comforting, reassuring moments, and am I ever grateful.

I also ran by the farmer’s market en route to pickup, and got, among other things, these gorgeous sunflowers. My car smelled divine all afternoon, the full-blown summer smell of basil and mint.

Off to swimming, including the standard change-in-the-car routine. I ordered this bathing suit on sale for Grace without noticing the Juicy Couture embroidered on the bottom. Actually I didn’t notice it until she put it on today. Hmm. Final sale. A little cheekier than I might have wished (no pun intended).

Whit was at swimming too. In his classic hilarious fashion. He is working hard (some of the time) to earn back his Legoland trip, which was rescinded due to terrible behavior the last few days. Stay tuned for how that goes, and for whether I head to California next week with one or two children.

I have a strong and perpetual instinct to just sit still. I’m sure this is inextricably bound with my endless preoccupation with how fast time is passing. I relentlessly under-program my children during the school year, and I say no to far more things than I say yes to. My favorite story about my antisocial hermetic tendencies remains the one about sitting next to a dear friend’s husband at a dinner party. He asked me something about plans and I said that I usually said no because I compared everything to sitting at home with a book in bed and 9 times out of 10 the book and bed seemed more appealing. I guess, on reflection, it’s no surprise that he was a bit taken aback by that answer!

But now I feel like I’m perched at the top of a tall roller coaster, feel as though this summer feels like it’s about to unfurl at dizzying speed. I look through the weeks between now and Labor Day, which signals the beginning of school and my new job, and each one is full of something. Other than this week and next. There is Legoland, there is YMCA camp in Marion, there is time in Vermont, etc, etc. There is BlogHer! I feel anxiety rising in my chest when I think about this schedule, feel literal tightness of breath.

I have been guided by my eagerness to jam pack this summer with memories for the kids, by my wild determination to take advantage of this time off. These are good instincts, I really believe that. But now I feel that sense of vague dread that I feel before something difficult, or something intense, sort of the night-before-a-final feeling. I let my mind drift to my to-do list, which includes small things like the pesky dentist appointments and big things like finding a new nanny, and I start to feel slightly panicky.

I’m trying to remind myself that this time will never come again. That I even need reminding about this seems preposterous: I hardly think of anything else, and that truth throbs like a drumbeat inside my head most of the day. I also try to remind myself that within each of these trips there will be tremendous downtime. In Marion for a week I’ll be on the back porch with my laptop. At Lake Champlain, ditto. There will be plenty of time for writing, reading, thinking. For moments like this one, where I sit on my bed with Whit resting silently next to me, almost catatonic with exhaustion and remarkably, charmingly docile. And all of the programming for the kids is actually very relaxed. And these are the days. Right?

I think what I’m really anxious about is the next transition that looms, back to Real Life, to a job and school and all of those routines that I was so scared of letting go of in the first place. Just as I settle into the rhythm of this summer, the next disruption, the next earthquake, begins to darken the horizon. I know what the Zen priest I cannot wait to meet in Boston (September 18! Yippee!) would say to me, and I try to heed it. Here. Now. It’s all I have anyway

I suspect, too, that I’m aware the larger arc of time. After all, this time in my life is surely the moment of full summer. I know that, and I am trying mightly to drink it in. But I fear so desperately the fall, the knowledge of which lurks around every single moment. There is already an elegy in the evening light, because I know we have already turned back towards the darkness.

How to honor this and not let it swamp me? I do not know.