THE SLOW & SLIP OF SUMMER

The nights where I tuck you into bed with hair still wet from an evening jump in our pool, the mornings with no plans and we can drink bottomless mugs of coffee on the porch, the walks with our dogs that aren’t rushed and we’ll let them sniff every tree around the block, the rainy day movies, the late night bonfires, the fireflies and roasted hot dogs - I long for theses nostalgic, ice cream cone, barefoot in the grass, kind of summer days.

I imagined these adventured-filled days would be the essence of summer motherhood, that you’d always want to stop for snow cones, that you’d never pass up a trip to the park, that I’d always be the one you needed. It hurts that sometimes you need yourself more than me. That my touch, presence, words, can be the trigger that sets into motion overwhelm and exhaustion. That my ideas filled with memories and magic, feel too loud, too new, too much.

I want to go - go play, go swim, go eat, go explore; you want to stay. And my motherhood is mustering magic to be patient, to be still, to listen and learn, to know you in a way that sees your preciousness, your gentle and big way of absorbing the world, and respecting how adventures can be loud and trips can ruin rhythms you need to regulate the huge heart that needs its home. To let my heart slip into yours, to find our own magic together, to create a new nostalgia, a quiet and restful landing place to live summer days, just us, when the world is too much.