Hello, dear reader. I hope you are having a survivable, if not mind-blowingly good, summer. One of you (hello, Anjanette!) sent me a note today to nudge me out of my recent blog-slumber. Which is why I must confess today that while I may be 41 years old, I still have the magical thinking of my preschool self at times. If you own my book and have read “A Turd in the Tub: The Magical Thinking of Children,” you’ll know what I mean. If you don’t own it*, I’ll just tell you I once shat in the bathtub when I was four — and bathing with my older sister, no less — believing I could will that turd to be invisible.
Not blogging for two months and thinking nobody would notice much tells you that I have some lingering issues with magical thinking. Instead of sneaking around over here hoping nobody misses me until September, I really should explain:
My kids, ages four and nine, are at a sometimes delicious, sometimes difficult age, and they are spending 20 hours every week in the care of a babysitter while I go off to do paid writing for a marketing firm. When I come home, they are hungry for me, and I’m hungry for them. I’m also literally hungry, like, for dinner. And the house is usually a mess, because our babysitters are fun with a capital “F” (experiments with red food coloring!) and don’t know how to load a dishwasher (cast iron skillets and Gladware in there!).
For some reason, this summer feels especially important to me on the family level. It’s a summer of love. I could have written a blog last night, but instead I invited my kids for a bike ride. I could have written one the night prior, but instead my daughter and I went on a hunt for wild blackberries. Actually most evenings, just before they go to bed, there is almost always a little time to blog, but that’s also when the fireflies are out en masse. I don’t want to miss my kids running around in their underwear catching fireflies! Besides, bedtimes have inched later and later, as they always do in the summer. Once the last request for water or a run to the potty has been hollered, once the upstairs falls silent but for the humming of ceiling fans and those occasional delicious sighs that deep-sleeping children make — well, the last thing I want to do is blog. There. I said it.
There’s this thing called a husband, you see. The only time he and I seem to have for each other these days is the time when I might normally be blogging. We sit and talk. We split a bottle of wine. Sometimes we just lounge about together, wordlessly reading but draping a leg over the other’s leg. It’s a summer of love.
Did I mention there’s laundry? And weeds to pull? And dentist appointments and grocery shopping?
Among all these pressing things to do, there are sweet summer pleasures I can’t deny myself, like planting flowers, picking green beans, swimming, camping, rubbing dirty little feet, and painting dirty little toenails.
Thank you for nudging me, Anjanette. I should have said something sooner. I’ll be back when the days grow shorter again. I hope every one of you will be here when I return!
Best to you,
P.S. Did I mention I’m writing another book?
*Why don’t you own my book?