It all changed. Two weeks ago. All at once. I felt it. Now I can see it too—the light is different. It is a slow awakening each year. And then, rather suddenly, everything shifts. The light turns almost pink. My pupils can’t do their work of filtering out the sun anymore and sunglasses, which in the winter are just an option, now become a necessity.
Summer is almost here. Again. In Phoenix. And we here in my house have all already…eased…into it. Homework seems less important. Everything seems less important. The sun is telling us a new story—a backyard hosewater story. The story before the mosquitos come. And popsicles are consumed at all times of day. And frozen grapes. And every night, like right now, I stumble upon the realization that it is bedtime. And it is way too late. 8:05 and we haven’t even read. And we won’t, because these days, I can find my man and my little boy, by the glow of the bedroom tv, watching post-season basketball or post-season hockey. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
And my baby girl is stuffing tiny heart-shaped buttons into a wad of silly putty next to me as I type. She isn’t much of a sports fan yet. So I need to go read her the Berenstein Bears and get her to sleep.
Such beautiful words of motherhood, seasons of life and of time.