Summertime, The Highs and Lows

The cicadas are singing outside my window tonight, and I have fresh mosquito bites on my legs after spending a few minutes bouncing away the day on the trampoline.  The dishes from supper are clean, and the littles are already sleeping even though the sun has just barely set.

Today marked the end of our summer. We packed the kids off to our little Lutheran school once more for a first day:

As I pulled into the parking lot this morning, I hummed the theme song from Cheers. Don't judge. I'm Lutheran. We're okay with an adult beverage every now and again. And sometimes, you really do want to go where somebody knows your name, and they're always glad you came. We've been away for a couple of months, but everyone still knows their names. And, it seems they were glad to see us again.

There is comfort in consistency. And, we're glad to be back, even if (according to RJ), "That first grade teacher is rough. She really works us hard!"

(Thanks, Mrs. Gaines. He came home tonight and spent an hour reading about the solar system. Keep knockin' 'em down and pickin' up; you're doing something right.)

But, even though I was glad to be back where everybody knows our names, I was sad to say goodbye to summer. It was a good summer. Much fun was had (as evidenced by the lack of computer time and plethora of selfies):

We put some miles on the cart (and learned a little about cart maintenance too).

I'll take my snuggles when I can get them; he's a big first grader now after all. 

So may pool meals. 

She still gives snuggles on demand. 

Someday, when I'm old, I'll smell pine needles and chlorine, and I will be overwhelmed with memories of this walk into the pool. 

The cart, day 65 of summer vacation. The towels might get laundered. Might just burn 'em--wouldn't want to stress the washer.  We've become less family-going-to-the-pool and more rolling-rummage-sale-who-needs-some-stale-crackers-and-lukewarm-soda?

We managed a trip or two back home. Gigi elected to stay a few days and waved us away happily. 

I turned 30 (again, ahem). 

And this kid. This kid. 

She danced. 

He played. 

So did she, when she forgot she was a ballerina.

We got silly.

I channeled my elementary school friend and managed twin French braids. 

(Lori, can you believe I managed it?!).

Gigi wasn't impressed: "But I didn't want French braids! I wanted Oklahoma braids!"

If you look closely, you'll see she has on Stuart Weitzman heels with her designer handbag and iPhone carrier. Her mother had a shoe and handbag habit in another lifetime. 

It's a good thing she's not afraid to get dirty now and again, or I'd be worried about her aspirations. 

When the boys are away, the girls will watch Frozen. 

It's a nail biter. 

And, 

it never gets old. 

We spent time on the water...

And shared a Coke with friends. 

Mom and dad celebrated 12 years of marriage and 16 summers of togetherness. 

Today, we said goodbye to our summertime highs (the lows don't get pictures, but trust me, there were a few); we say hello to our little Lutheran school; and, we welcome the routine that this brings. 

Study hard. Play hard. Welcome back to school, kids!

Confidence in Me!

Before there are junior high dances. Before that first blemish threatens. Before you learn the difference between Garanimals and Nike. 

There's this:

Unscathed. Flawless. A lake without so much as a ripple wrinkling the surface.

Julie Andrews sang about it. Classes are devoted to developing it. These days, every kid gets a ribbon, a cookie, a hug and a "great job!" all in an effort to cultivate it.

Confidence. No, more than confidence. Confidence in me.  Trust in yourself. That belief that you are smart enough and important enough. The belief that your swimsuit doesn't make your butt look big because you are amazing:

Bikinis? Not a problem. You've got this under control:

As parents, we enroll them in classes and schools. We hope they find something they love. But, more than anything, we hope they finds something that makes them love themselves:

She picked out her own costume for her very first dance performance. I wanted her with a big blue bow. She thought the pigtails would make her look more grown up.

There were some moments of uncertainty...

and pre-performance nerves.

But in the end, she found it: confidence in me! 

And for the grandparent crowd, I give you our very own Gigi:

(I encourage you to stick around to the end…or at least fast forward to minute 3 to hear a very confident, if not historically accurate, rendition of the Christmas story--a/k/a Jesus and the Fairies Meet Old MacDonald's Chickens in Bethlehem, with a special cameo by none other than Hello Kitty).

Jump Right In

We get three months each year to play, to swim, to sleep late, and to be kids--at least until we're forced to grow up. Each year, I promise myself that we'll swim a few more hours than last summer; play more games; sleep a little later; and remember what it's like to be a kid.

This year, we jumped right in:

We spent most of the month of June warming up to the neighborhood pool (and hoping it would warm up too):

Honestly, will it ever stop raining?

We've had a run-in with a breaststroking frog in the shallow end. Screams followed, and tears. Ultimately, Gigi determined, "Fwogs just really aren't my thing." 

The Fourth of July is my summertime rubber mallet. It hits me with a solid, yet non-injurious, "Thwack! Wake up! Summer is officially here, and it's already halfway over!"

"Hey RJ, You smell better than usual." "Oh yes," he tells me, "It's the  peanut butter." 

"Mom," RJ tells me, "You've seen a lot more future than dad, 'cause you're so much older than he is." Older, schmolder. I can still rock a pair of flag leggings like nobody's business--even if the old neighbor though they were his business. Said he, "Makes me want to salute! I feel more independent already!" 

The Fourth of July thwacked me solidly this year, but not nearly so soundly as it has in past years. 

Because this year, we've jumped right into summer: 

Yes, it's a trampoline. It will kill our grass. It has already skinned our knees. 

And it is, without a doubt, one of the best toys ever. 

We're jumping into summer this year with both feet. We'll sleep a little later, swim a little longer, and jump until the fireflies speckle the evening sky. 

Race Day

Once upon a time, I was seven-years old. Skinny knees, tanned cheeks, and blond hair. I fancied myself a real swimmer, and I found myself anxiously awaiting the start of a race. We practiced swimming as a team, knocking knuckles from time to time as we passed in the lane and giggling between sets. But, come race day, you stood alone behind the blocks; you listened alone to the final race instructions; and the lane, for once, was solely yours alone. Swimming is a collective of individual efforts for the greater goal of the team.

Today, RJ found himself alone at the start. He listened to the race instructions all by himself. And, he swam his first race:

(In case you're wondering, today, I was the mom who had no memory card in her real camera, no idea what events her kid would be swimming, and who fed her son donuts before his races.)

He seemed pleased enough.

First was the 25-meter backstroke, then 25 meters of butterfly. He was flawless if in last place. Then came his 25-meter freestyle. He warned up behind the lane, scooping his arms wide and kicking the deck like a frog. "RJ," I scampered to the end of his lane, "this is freestyle, not breastroke." "Right," he peered through his goggles. "So, I breathe every stroke?" And with that, he was off, breastroking his way to last place in a freestyle world. He climbed out with a smile on his face. 

And, as we left the pool, he gave me his final observation, "Mom, I think I came in last, not because I'm slow, but because I swam the wrong stroke." 

He made his individual effort for the greater goal of the team. In the end, I don't know who won the meet. 

The pool smells the same at 8 a.m. as it did when I was seven, and it's hard to realize that the lanes are filled with my friends waiting to giggle between sets: