Until this year, every fall brought a feeling of anticipation. Crisp air, cool evenings, new school supplies.
As long as I didn’t linger on nostalgic thoughts of easy friendships, endless potential, and running with my college cross country team – a couple of aspects of younger me that I sometimes wish I had back – I could dive into the possibilities of a new school year. I would try not to pay too much attention to the darker mornings and the briefer evenings. As summer closed, I would frenetically finish house projects so they wouldn’t tempt me once I started the homeschool year.
Then came this year. This summer, the Chaplain and I poured so much into our relationship. I estimate we covered about 270 miles this summer walking together in the evenings. We wore out the Chaplain’s shoes and got into shape. We finally, finally got some ease back into our relationship.
We went on adventures this summer. A trip to the beach. Trips to Grafton Lakes. A camping trip. All these little moments of family time, all the time outside, had put me in touch with the world in a way I haven’t been in a long time. As the days were getting shorter, I noticed.
One thing that was on my Summer Bucket List that we hadn’t done yet was go bathing at the beach.
I remember what a big deal it was to go to the beach as a kid. We lived on the bank of a river, so we regularly got a water fix, but there is something you get at the ocean that you can’t get anywhere else. It’s like synchronizing your heartbeat with God’s as the rhythm of the waves moves through you.
I was working myself up to writing about shame when my three-year-old, Six, came in the house howling. He was covered in dirt, with the epicenter somewhere near his face. I heaved him up over the edge of the kitchen sink, trying to rinse the dirt out of his eyes, but quickly realized a more extreme approach would be called for.
Taking him under my arm in a football hold, I charged into the bathroom and started the water running while Six screamed, begging me not to use the sprayer. But this was a job for the sprayer. A bath just wasn’t going to do it. His scalp was covered in dirt, and it was stuck to his neck and all over his face. Five did it, he claimed angrily.
I soaped him up and came after him with the sprayer, trying to avoid his face. Six is a fan of only one type of bathing – the type that doesn’t involve getting his face or hair wet. I braced myself, and his screaming reached a crescendo.
This morning got off to a rough start. It began with a contingent of kids who were up at the crack of dawn.
Based on the level of clamor, I was surprised and unhappy when I came downstairs to find it was barely seven. An all-out fight was in progress, the kitchen had been trashed, and a batch of pancakes was steaming on the stovetop.
I co-slept with One from the time he was the size of a football, curled up like a kitten on my chest. It was to maintain my sanity. As I got longer stretches of sleep, I transferred him into a bassinet, then a crib.
Because he was my first, as he got to be an older baby, then a toddler, he snuck his way into my bed some nights. Once he got there, he did what he had done since he was in my womb – he paced. He literally swam laps from the top of the bed to the bottom all night long. It was the pits.
But co-sleeping when he was a newborn was a total lifesaver. So was putting him to sleep on his belly.
I tried not to feel guilty about either of those things, but I didn’t tell a lot of people, either, because I knew I was breaking the rules.
