Summer Love!

A few weeks back my youngest and I found ourselves spending the day just the two of us.  It doesn’t happen very often and what made it even more rare was that we had nothing special on the calendar, just a whole day to hang out doing as we pleased.  We decided on a mid afternoon movie, had lots of laughs, and enjoyed every minute of it.  Then, and I’m not even sure how this happened, just when I thought I’d squeezed out every ounce of enjoyment I could from a day like that, I found myself holding hands with my son as we walked to our car…just like that…like it happens every day! 

         Of course, the truth is, it used to happen every day, years ago.  And like so many other little routine things that happened back then, I took it for granted, unable to appreciate then that it would not last forever.  But not this time, this was one of those fleeting moments when all of my senses were on high alert.  I could actually feel a calm awareness take over my body allowing me to calmly breath in the full awareness of what I held in my hand; a special gift that I should fully appreciate for each second I could before letting go. 

I wanted time to stand still. It took me back, just for a few seconds, to the days of squeezing those sticky fingers between my own to do any old random thing. 

  Or the time I didn’t grab hold and he darted right into the street, narrowly avoiding the front bumper of a thankfully alert driver’s car, the feeling of both shock and relief when I scooped him up safe in my arms.  Back to the time when each chubby finger had its own dimple instead of a knuckle, where I often would leave a lipstick reminder of “I love you” before heading out the door for work.  That spot where I would rub my thumb back and forth, connected together in a way you can’t truly appreciate until you don’t have the chance to do it any more.

            So, for this little slice of heaven to slide quietly into my grasp for just a few seconds, I would gladly give up many other things.  And then, just like that, we hopped in the car and went on with our day, almost like it never happened. 

But I know it did.  And I know that those glimpses of “little boy” are getting further apart and I had better pay attention or I will miss some of the last looks I’m going to get at the real treasures of summer, when the days are long, and I can catch them being little a few more times.  

 This summer I’m spending a little time quietly observing whenever I find the chance.

I love when I can sneak away to a quiet spot where they don’t know I am even on the planet, and I can watch them at play.  Oh, I know the rules. I have been instructed that it must be referred to as “hanging out”, not “playing”, at this advanced age they’ve attained.  But I know what I see.

One moment, they are couched down hiding behind a tree or fence, the next they spring up and sprint off in another direction.  I catch them tip toeing past and shake my head in conspiracy as they quietly indicate with one finger that we must be very quiet because the hunt is on and we will be doomed if they are discovered! Their feet are bare and grass stained.  They don’t know or don’t care that the mosquito population is getting fat off of them.  They have no idea they are filling the entire neighborhood with echoes.

            It’s the best part of summer and I am in the heart of it, managing sunscreen, band aides, fireflies, and swimsuits and towels littering the porch. It’s the best love affair I know of kids and their summer vacation and I want to hang on to being a part of it as long as I can, crouched here in my hiding place where I’m hoping I won’t be found!

Freeze! Cheese!

“Mom, make him stop!”

            It’s the catch phrase of the summer of 2013.  The act is old, I shoot the familiar annoyed-mom-look at both of them.  This time we are in the waiting room at the doctor’s office and the victimizer is snapping phone photos of the victim and threatening to post them on various social media.

            It’s on the top-ten-list of ways to annoy your sibling these days.  The old fashioned ways still exist, the one’s I once had perfected with my own brother, excessive touching, entering the off limits bedroom, taking clothing items without permission, and being generally annoying by making various and repetitive sounds, signs, or natural body functions in the general direction of the other.

            But, there are also more evolved methods of getting the other sibling annoyed.

“Mom, make him stop reading my texts!”

“Why did you tweet THAT?”

“Why are you friending all MY friends?”

“Look at this picture of you!” Followed by hilarious laughter from one and “Mom!” from the other.

            Seriously they have to be the most photographed and photo centered generation of all time.  From the now perfected “selfie”, to photos that magically disappear into thin air, to “Mom, look what I just posted!” so the world can fully appreciate a close up look at the soda we ordered for lunch.

            Perhaps one consolation is they won’t have the issues of my generation.  We took plenty of our own bizarre and inane photos but they had to be printed to enjoy them. Then, if you’re like my family, many wound up in shoeboxes stashed in closets full of all sorts of memories.

            What do you do with that?  Can I part with those heart-felt connections to the past, the one where I’m collecting gravel from the driveway in my sticky little 2 year old hand? 

 Or the strangely frightening doll I got at that birthday party with kids from a neighborhood where we only lived until I was four years old?  What do you do with the random group photos where mom was looking the other way, usually talking to someone off camera? Or the photo of us in the back yard but we are so small and black and white that you can’t really make out what we were doing. Or the great uncle at that one family reunion that one year, or my cousin’s children when they were babies, or the great scenery shots of Silver Dollar City in 1972?  It’s usually so overwhelming that I simply slam the lid back on the box and walk away, saving that little project for another day!

            The shocking antithesis to what’s happening on my children’s electronics is hanging in my hallway.   They are the old photos, taken back when cameras were mysterious pieces of machinery. Those standing before you put thought and planning into what would be in front of that lens.  These photos are workhorses, they tell an entire story.  I love them for that.   They are rare treasures.

            I know every inch of the picture of my grandparents when they were courting because I’ve stared at it and studied it for years.   

Grandpa, a carpenter, had a band-aid on his thumb.  I can tell Grandma’s dress was fancy, maybe silk, because of the way the light hits it in the breeze, and it was summer, warm, they were happy and carefree.  It’s all there in that photo.  Romance, mystery, nostalgia, hopes, dreams, everything you need for a good novel is right there captured in that instant in time.

            I guess the new challenge for my kids and their photo chatting generation will be finding that; the perfect balance of cool and nonchalance my grandparents had without even trying. 

  Finding a way to really see, through the sea of pictures a special one, that has it’s own heartbeat; the one that has a thousand words worth of story to tell, their story to tell, for their grandkids to frame.   

            

Maybe that’s impossible.  Maybe the day is gone when one single picture can do all that.  Maybe my kids are just that much more sophisticated than me that they will be able to glean blissful pleasure out of the tidal wave of photos they have of themselves and every incidental item they own.

And, just maybe, my son’s grand kids will truly appreciate a photo of my son’s socks.