The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. — L. P. Hartley
I have been trying to be present this summer — for the days of rising with the sun; tantrums in lieu of diaper changes; wet bathing suits stuffed and discovered later (thank you sense of smell) in strollers, under beds; screaming scenes as I drag my children from the playground sprinkler back home for baths and dinner. I am trying to be aware of the endless, sticky, less-structured days as they pass. I am also trying to stay awake.
While my children are little, each year seems like a different country. Each season is met with bigger hands and feet, increasingly sharp wit and minds. They know more, they do more, they are truly more themselves each day. (They don’t really sleep more. I guess that’s high school.) Crawling, swim diapers, scooters, naps–these will all be things of another country one day. I am afraid I will not remember that language, or that architecture.
Before we race toward school starting, then holidays, I want to post a few of this summer’s pictures. It’s been a long summer. A good one, but I try to stay honest with you and with myself–next year, there will be camp!
(This was supposed to be wordless. I suck at that.)