Never say goodbye to summer

This summer was one of a kind, even if it followed a familiar playbook.

Camp, check. Pool, check. Beach, mountains, city fun: check, check, check. Add in a couple kitschy amusement parks, some long bike rides and too many pickup soccer games, and you’ve got another killer summer for Berdey and Bea.

Over the past few months, I thought often about how lucky my kids are, how when I was a kid I didn’t do one-tenth of the cool things they do. (These thoughts are not seasonal, by the way.) Then I joined in the fun, in a way I don’t usually do. My kids dove into every summer experience at warp speed, but I processed at a noticeably different pace. It was as if my brain was recording everything in slow motion, and my neurons were telling me, “Hold on a minute. This is something to savor. This is not going to last.”

It’s a standard line of middle-aged parents that when we were kids, we were shoved out the door and told to “go play.” Summer was about roaming free and only seeing your parents at mealtimes or when you needed money for the ice cream man, or when you were bleeding. And you had to be bleeding a lot.

As a low-income kid growing up in suburban apartment complexes, I was outside in the common areas all summer. I had so many bug bites, scabs and sunburns, I looked like an island castaway, but among my friends, it was a badge of honor to stay out no matter what. Hungry or thirsty? Someone’s older sister probably had something. Need some shade? Hide under a bush. Have to go to the bathroom? Well, find another bush. The only time I remember running home crying was after I had rolled around in the woods and got covered head to toe in thumbtack-sized ticks. (After a long and tortuous bath, I went back out.) Even after dinner, there was time for hours of tag, jump-roping and all manner of made up games on the patch of grass centering the apartments.

My summers were simple. I had my ragtag group of friends, a couple weeks at Evil Grandma’s house and maybe an awkward camping trip with my awkward father. That was about it. I’m not complaining, because I had fun and got in lots of unseen trouble, but if I compare my childhood summers to Berdey and Bea’s, well, let’s just say the memories don’t stack up.

Case in point, my kids made an ambitious list of things to do over the summer, and with one or two exceptions, we did them all. And trust me, we don’t do half the fancy-pants stuff other families I know do over the summer. But we are fortunate. We have the means to do many fun activities and we love being together.

That sense of togetherness is what I savored all summer. (Me, who sees the dark cloud on every sunny day and can’t wait to get some alone time under my umbrella.) I felt the poignancy of the longer hours we had together, and I gave into it. Pangs hit me when we raced in the pool, when we walked the pier at night, when we played hand games like “Coconut Crack” and “Bubble Gum” on the train. I cried at the sight of Berdey and Bea reading quietly in their beds one morning (instead of waking me up). And one night on vacation when Mark and I took Bea to a Sound of Music singalong at a quaint village park, the tears really flowed. Sure, “Edelweiss” can do that to a person, but time and again this summer, our little family scene was so sweet it hurt.

Summer memories have always passed through a particular prism in my mind. I’m sure that’s true of most people. When I look back on my childhood summers, they are washed clean in their brightness; they crystallize and take up more space in my happiness than their allotted time (or level of fun) would suggest. As I collect memories with my kids, the prism is still my filter. The light passes through, the heat dissipates, and what’s left is greater than the sum of its parts. Only the colors have changed.

Summer is more beautiful to me now. It gives me clarity and focus on what and who are important to me. It heightens my emotions, and yes, it hurts. Not like sunburn, but like heartbreak. Because it can’t last. Because there are freckles, so many freckles on faces other than mine. The freckles just slay me.