I hibernate during the winter. Could sleep for days, weeks maybe, if it weren’t for all the obligations like, say, feeding children or making sure the electric bill gets paid. I get grumpy when it’s gray for two or more consecutive days; and I’m like a tantrum-throwing four year old on steroids when the weather inches below 32 degrees.
But summer is when I come alive. Wind in my hair, strawberry seeds in my teeth, bare feet scorched on the hot pavement and cooled on the dewy grass. It’s the best version of me, a girl that I really like when I see her in the mirror at the end of the day.
An old friend was reminding me recently of the summers we spent lounging around my grandparents’ farmhouse when we were kids. We reminisced about the afternoons where we would spend hours on end cooking pretend food in my treehouse and serving it on a big wooden spool that my uncle had fashioned into a “dining room table.” When we got hot, or just bored, we’d take a dip in the pool or run through the water sprinkler. If it was raining, we’d nestle up on the loveseat, or what we called the “mini couch,” with a bag of Doritos and a jar of CheezWhiz, watching back-to-back episodes of Cosby that my grandma had recorded throughout the year on VHS tapes. We chased fireflies, caught them, and bottled them up. We set up a lemonade stand outside my uncle’s old tire shop. We rode a three-wheeler around my grandpa’s immaculate garden and picked ticks off of our tan little bodies. We chewed big league bubble gum like tobacco while we rode in the back of pickup trucks. We ate raw cake batter and cookie dough and mixed pop rocks in our Mountain Dew; stayed up into the morning hours talking until one of us heard the other one snore.
In stark contrast, these days summer seems to carry with it a pressure to make sure that my kids are more properly entertained and certainly better fed than I was. I have bedtimes to maintain and play dates to schedule and storytime hours to attend, and I end every day with all the toys tucked neatly back into their bins. My bag is always prepped with sunscreen and bug spray and fruit snacks just in case. I have a copy of the food pyramid complete with suggested servings saved as an ever-ready pdf file in my brain. This version of myself stresses me out, and I don’t like her near as much as my sunburnt, windblown, discheveled me.
Granted, my littles are very little still, and there will be plenty of summers for rules to be broken and boundaries to be stretched in the years to come, but I’ve developed a mantra for myself in hopes that by the time those adventures present themselves, I will already be used to loosening up the reigns a bit when the days are long and hot and free.
My Summer Mantra:
Before scolding or criticizing my kids, I will ask myself if something is genuinely wrong or if I am just not in the mood to be bothered by it.
When one of my boys says “Mama” for the 742nd time, I will breathe deeply, make eye contact, and try to give them at least a moment of the attention they are seeking.
When I have the opportunity to get in a pool on a hot day, I will take it. (Regardless of how insecure I may feel in my stretched-out mama skin)
I will remember that they won’t always be asking for piggy-back rides.
I will allow them to run around our yard in their diapers and bare feet even though they have stylish swim shorts, orthopedic sandals, and UV proof hats waiting right inside.
I will not wake a sleeping child unless there is threat of a natural disaster.
I’ll let them eat popsicles, lots of popsicles, dripping the juicy, sugary mess all over their bare bellies.
I’ll turn up the music when they ask.
I’ll chase them around making dinosaur sounds or hide behind corners and yell, “Boo!” Even though they know I’m there. I’ll tickle relentlessly and tackle the slide on my belly because a little silly goes a long way with toddlers.
I’ll lay in bed with a book at night even if there are dishes in the sink.
I’ll allow my husband to eat the non-food foods that are usually banned from our pantry (i.e. Chicken in Biskit crackers with Easy Cheese . . . really?!)
Before I respond to a request with an automatic “No,” I will take an extra moment to consider the possible benefits of saying “Yes.”
I will find ways to be kind to myself.
I’ll let my boys play in the hot summer rain at least once.
When my oldest comes crawling into our bed in the wee hours of the morning, I’ll remember that he probably won’t be doing that when he’s 22.
When my youngest insists on eating dirt, I’ll turn my head the other way every once in awhile.
I will spend more time taking pictures and less time posting them.
I won’t chastise my husband when he forgets to set the coffee timer.
I refuse to turn summer into a checklist.
I will carry extra grace in my pockets for the extended days and occasional meltdowns; the tired, overplayed bodies and full bellies; and I’ll know that for everything there is a season. This is just my season of YES.
Dare to join me?
