I think about what it feels like to throw open my windows on a warm spring day as I clean, organize, and create. My refrain of “what’s next?!” is full of zeal; the next project, the next task, the next activity all lined up waiting with impatience.
Kindergarten stresses me out. I don’t think it is supposed to do that. But as I pull paper after crumpled paper from Lorelei’s bookbag I can feel myself wanting to shove it all under the couch and run far, far away. 100 days projects. Boxtops. A million pieces of school work. Worksheets. Books for her to read. Newsletters. Fliers for programs and meetings and groups. Snack calendars. Fundraisers. -a-thons. Drives. As my brain is trying to prioritize this, it spirals into fear that I did not remember to do that thing. Some thing. I don’t know what thing. But there’s always a thing.
Today may have broken me. I was about ten seconds from huddling in a closet and refusing to come out until other people did all of the adulting for me, leaving me with nothing to do but watch Jane the Virgin and drown my frustrations in a half-gallon of double fudge ripple.
Saying I love weather is like saying I love breathing, it’s part of who I am, and has been for as long as I can remember. There is a home video from Christmas ’89 where I am playing in the snow, making snowballs, and generally being a kid – then I suddenly look up at the camera and with the authority of a meteorologist I state, “this is the first white Christmas in New Bern since 1898.” Then I go back to playing.
The summer child is running, the summer child is running again.
The summer child is running, the summer child is running again
When you hear the feet and the sound of laughter,
Better step aside for the mayhem after
Here she comes, yeah the summer child is running again.
– Dar Williams