I used to keep stacks of journals beside my bed. And under my bed. And in my closet. They followed me through years of becoming, each one holding pieces of a life I was trying to understand as I lived it. Sometimes, when I'm feeling particular vulnerable or want to remember, I open up a journal and read until I forget where I am. Then I snap myself back into the present, usually grateful to be here but often carrying a quiet ache of nostalia.
My son is turning 14 this summer. My daughter is 10.
I often think about the times my mom talked about having teenagers, " you learn that you have to pick your battles" Or when she used to give my brothers backrubs in exchange that they tell her five things. I understand that now more, the way that Finn is short with his explanations. I have to be careful in the way that I question. After school, or after a practice, sometimes I forget and I start throwing out questions- who was there, who did well, did you have fun, what did you think? Going on and on until he says something like, "god mom- can you ask any less questions??"
And then I think about seasons we haven't reached yet. When he starts going to parties, when he starts driving, girlfriends. The thousand moment that will teach me new ways to worry.
But I don't let myself wander too far ahead, at least not this summer. I'm trying to stay here. To cherish these ordinary moments before they become summer memories, even if they look a little different now. My kids need me less, but of course, they still need me. They're still young enough.
Like when I peek into Finn's room late at night and he has fallen asleep with his phone next to him. I creep in and move the phone and accidentally wake him with a startle, and right as I turn to leave he asks if I'll stay and lay with him.There are years rushing toward us, I know, but tonight I lay with Finn's arm around my neck, and it is enough.
