Dog Days

Is it still summer?  my four year old asked me this morning, as she laid beside me in my bed, head resting on my arm, feathery hair tickling my nose. It’s been summer for a really long time.

Has it? I thought. Here I am, rushed while buying groceries and concerning myself with things like moping the floors and laundry and what to pack in the kids daycare bags when I forgot to check the weather and paying bills and squeezing in time for training runs/swims/bikes and being prepared for the clinic I coach each Tuesday night and if we’ve gotten enough family time this week and if I can squeeze in that manicure Tuesday afternoon before my meetings in Charlottetown and did someone feed the dog?

I can’t count the number of times I’ve turned down an offer to play babies or puppies or catch a bouncy ball with my kids because I need to do something else.

What will they remember, I ask myself. Will they remember a mother who took care of herself, who was healthy and fit and strong? Will they remember a mother who sometimes didn’t care about the dishes in the sink and instead sat down and played dollies? Will they remember a mother who snapped at them at four o’clock when they were hanging off her legs and there was still a million things to get done before dinner? Will they remember a mother that gave time outs and punishments? I imagine they’ll remember a little bit of all of that.

It’s easy to doubt yourself, though. Here in this heat as summer buzzes quickly by and every single person I talk to wonders out loud just where the time has gone. Every person but one.

To her, summer is bubbles on the deck, sheets hanging on the clothesline that are low enough to run through, sprinklers and a breeze through her open window as she naps.

Maybe I should take a second look at what summer means to me, too

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