A Year of Some; and the Summer of None

"Are we there yet?" "How much longer?" "Is it the end?"

I've asked all of the important questions this year. Finally, I'm hearing the answers I want. 

Yes! We've made it! The wait is over! Summer is here!

This year was a year of some new things. We had homework. Yes, we had homework; first grade homework is no joke. It really does take a village; and the village had better understand diphthongs. This was our first attempt at 2 kids, 2 grades, and 2 full time jobs. I learned some new recipes and made some new friends; RJ learned some new words; and Gigi picked up some new letters along the way. I fell behind on the family blog, but I didn't fall behind on the family. We had some fun (actually so much fun). It was the year of some. And, with every sandwich scarfed on the way to dance lessons; with every late evening drive across town from swim lessons; with every Friday night spent searching for shin guards, water bottles, and soccer balls, I started building my case. The issue? Whether kids (and parents) really need to be scheduled every evening of every week. Whether our family needed a break from some things. I started to lobby for my cause: the summer of none. No commitments. No practices, rehearsals, games, or schedules. It started as a joke. 

"I'm done," I'd laugh. "I just want to come home, throw sandwiches in the cooler, and spend all summer at the pool." 

Somewhere along the way it became less a joke and more a commitment. 

Two weeks ago, we said goodbye to the three-year old preK and the first grade: 

(I totally wish those hydrangeas were mine; they're totally the neighbor's.)

Our little Lutheran school sends them on their way with blessings. 

This boy was blessed too; he's a Reading Champion and a Green Machine. Green Machines are pretty rare; you see, it means he didn't get a single frowny face all year, only green smiley faces. It's kind of a big deal. 

And with a blessing and one last ride in the toot mobile (I don't ask what goes on during the drive to school; that's between them and their daddy), the year of so many some things came to an end--almost:

There was still the matter of two dress rehearsals and a recital. 

"Gigi! I didn't know you were going to be center stage!" I told her after the recital, a full stage production of The Wizard of Oz.  "I think it's because I'm pretty," she piped back at me. "And because I know to go potty before and after, but not during." 

The village comprised of grandparents, parents, and two nannies pulled it off. And, there was only one car sandwich involved. I call this one "Portrait of a Working Mom." And I suspect she'll grow up just fine anyway. Stay tuned for Chapter 8,936 in which we will learn Gigi's fate. 

 And with that, we committed to the Summer of None. No evening practices; no dinners eaten in the swagger wagon; few commitments and even fewer things to do. 

The Summer of None has begun!

We kicked it off with good vibrations. It's hard to feel too much pressure when the Beach Boys take the stage. 

He's going to make a great dad someday; and his wife will appreciate knowing that he was never too cool for babies. 

I'll dress like her as long as she'll tolerate me. 

We've taken time to find the perfect summer sandals. 

And the kids are re-discovering some old favorites; 

taking time to appreciate the goodness that is summer; and 

learning to appreciate each other more than they already do. 

Their Summer of None might have just a little bit of fun. 

"Ryan," I asked, "Are you going to be a fireman?" 

"Yes!"

"And I'm going to marry a fireman!" 

I sincerely hope that they realize what a special summer they're having. 

"Is it time yet?" Yes! Finally! The pool is open!

It's time for popsicles. 

Time for sillies. 

Time for none. Nothing but quiet moments that make up childhood, and 

the moments that remind us of the childhood that was year after year of summers of none. 

A Letter to RJ for His 8th Birthday

Dear RJ,

In about 8 years, I'll hear tires in the driveway and smile because you'll have driven home safely from the soccer fields. In less than 8 years, you'll be 16--old enough to drive, to microwave your own burrito, and almost old enough to date. If we're being honest, you'll probably already have a darling girlfriend who I hope will sit beside me at soccer games with her face buried in her hands the same as mine, because she cares just that much whether the ball makes it into the net.

For now, I'll take all the hand holding and snuggles you'll send my direction--even the ones that come at midnight, the result of an Oklahoma thunder clap that shakes you from your dreams.

This weekend, we decided a movie night was in order. We were tired, beaten by another week of work, spelling tests, and sight words.  Even tired, I couldn't face Lightening McQueen or Planey McPlaneface (or whoever that Disney plane is). Netflix tossed us a real cinematic gem: Harry and the Hendersons (2.5 stars out of 5). Your baby sister held your hand while you plugged your ears when Harry yowled from the sting of peroxide on his boo-boos.

If I'm talking to my friends, I'm torn between boasting how grown-up you've gotten and how much you're still my little boy. I pretend to be amused or even a bit frustrated that when you heard the peppy "Peep Peep!"  of Thomas the Tank Engine last week, you dropped your cereal spoon on the spot and plopped on the sofa exclaiming, "Oh! A choo-choo!" I was amused--not a bit frustrated. Sure, it made the morning routine take an extra five minutes, but you're eight, and you still love a choo-choo. How could that frustrate me?

More than once, we've been approached on the sidelines of a game and asked, "How long has he been playing?" "Since before he could walk." It's true. Your daddy used to swing your feet at the ball, both of you with a case of the giggles. This year, more than ever it seems, you're focused more on that ball than just about anything. Of course, I don't know how I could have expected anything too different: 

Your sport, for better or worse, was chosen years ago. The perks and perils of parenting: we either pick it right, or we pick it wrong. If we guessed right, you've found something to delight your spirit forever. If we guessed wrong, you'll have something substantive to discuss with your therapist someday. 

So far, so good:

I'd never tell you how I've turned into a soccer mom with collapsable chairs, blankets, and juice boxes stored in the back of my (gasp) minivan. I'd certainly never tell you that I asked your coach to never put you in the goal again because it's not where you shine. Being married to the coach has its perks. And there's no way I'd tell you that when people tell me you're talented, I scoff and respond, "He is, but he can't tie his own shoes. We all have different gifts." 

I tell you I'm proud of you for giving your teammates and friends a pat on the back and a kind word. Friends are important, no matter how old you are:

If you're lucky as a kid of your generation, you'll find that one friend who wants to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and laugh with you while you play on your (mother's) phone. 

 I'm proud of you for the man I think (I hope) you'll be someday. 

I'm proud of you for saying thank you, no matter how small the gift. 

I'm proud of you for missing only two or three points on your spelling tests; spelling is hard. Sitting in a chair to study is hard, especially when your feet are twitching for the backyard. 

I'm not especially proud of your table manners. Rice is meant to be eaten with a fork, spoon at the minimum, never the fingers. But I am proud that you smile at our waitresses, and you've already asked why we always leave a little extra for them. 

I'm proud that you're kind to your baby sister, even when you don't know I'm watching: 

And you're kind when you know I'm watching too:

This week, you both earned your seasonal medals. Every kid is a winner these days, and we tend to down play the awards. But you knew it was important to your baby sister, and you were the first one to take her medal in your hands for close inspection as it lay around her neck. You squealed with her and examined ever part of it--even though you had one exactly the same in the car. 

"This is so cool!" "Can I keep the soccer guys?" you asked me. "But I don't really like cake." 

Next year, we'll have cookies. 

The party room was a little rough for an Edmond kid; fortunately, your Edmond problems are few. Who are we kidding? 

You can barely keep your bottom in a chair; you couldn't care less that it was a peeling folding chair. 

The field was yours. 

This field was yours too as you ended the season with a goal. 

Very occasionally, we get the chance to toss a ball around; you humor me. You're better than me, and you know it. But, you'd never tell me that. Those evenings are the best evenings. Those half hours where you're not a classmate, friend, or teammate. You're just my little boy. Toothless with a lisp. Sweaty but without the stink that adolescence will bring. Sweet, funny, and kind. 

Your Poppy used to tell me, "Short time to be a kid, long time to be an adult." 

Eight years went by awfully fast.

Eight more doesn't seem quite long enough before I hear tires turning into the driveway. Then again, eight years might just be long enough for you to learn to tie your shoes. 

Stay kind. Stay sweet. Stay funny. 

Love, Mom