Time to rewrite my summer story

This morning felt like a summer day. That is to say, the kids were up at 6:00 a.m., I did three loads of laundry and bleached the outside garbage cans while trying to entice the kids to get outside and jump rope, blow bubbles, draw with sidewalk chalk and play catch with the dog on the lead of course so he wouldn’t feel left out. Summer, man.

I used to envision my summers as a parent by the raffia totes I would carry and the ban de solei I would be using. I would bake cherry pies and set them to cool on the kitchen windowsill, right next to my fresh herb garden. I would line dry the clothes, of course, but I would do it while gloriously wearing a seersucker dress, taking a moment to raise my hand in a gentle salute while I scanned the (fields? Shoreline? I never got that part clear…) to spy my happily playing children as I laughed and pulled linens into a wicker basket. I might even run my hands along the flower garden, collecting a spontaneous (and fabulous) arrangement that I would place on the dinner table alongside the home fried chicken, fresh shucked corn and sweet watermelon. Ah, summer.

So, clearly I need to rewrite my narrative or I will be hopelessly disappointed. My real summer involves real people, not stock characters that I can swap in and out of a scene like dolls in a game and I want to cherish what makes each of them lovely to me. There will be laundry, that is certain, and dinner too, but I am going to adjust my aim for clean clothes and home cooking and not how far from Betty Crocker I actually am. The kids do play happily (for a spell) but I am going to remember that when they ask for their fortieth snack and water break during a fifteen minute round of hot potato, that they are only going to be at this stage once and I will miss it one day (much like it was promised that in some weird way I would miss their wobbly, tippy-toed dance in their walkers as they cruised the house and crashed repeatedly into my heels).

Replacing Judgment with Love

I had cleaned the kitchen; I was ready to take out the trash and figured I had maybe ten more minutes left in the nighttime routine when I saw the state of the kids’ rooms. Beds on the floor, dress up clothes discarded, books, toys, water bottles half full and laundry baskets overflowing with towels. Ugh.

What I should have done then was paused and taken a few deep breaths, marveling at the fact that the kids are still little, played creatively all weekend and spent the two days they had off together. What I did was dive deep into sorting, doling out assignments, vacuuming, organizing and assisting with reading words, finding that other shoe and disposing of cheese stick wrappers.

I had already declared that I had a handle on things inside so when my husband peeked his head in to give out goodnight kisses, he has slightly alarmed at my near total tantrum. He urged me to take a minute and walk outside, sitting in the breeze as the sun set and gathering my wits. I declined. He tried once more and I stomped outside, sullen and angry at what I felt was him judging me (that I couldn’t keep it together while wingding things down inside), declaring as I walked that I was basically being told what to do. (For the record, this is me on my worst day – I would like to think I am not routinely this dramatic).

What I couldn’t see then, (until I took a minute to, ahem, sit in the breeze as the sun set and gather my wits) was that it wasn’t judgement; it was love. It seems crazy to mistake the two, but I am guilty of doing it, because I want to be all the things. I know that I can’t really do it all, but that remains my goal somehow… Tonight was a wakeup call because the truth clashed so hard with my narrative that I had to actually rewrite the narrative (rats!).

But re-write it I shall. Help, when offered, is a gift that is given in love. Despite all my flaws and shortcomings, my guy still loves me and thinks I am pretty great, because he spends his time loving me and not judging me. I think I should take the same approach to myself