Saturday, July 7, 2012
I'm such a sucker. Every summer I fall for it, the magazines with their bright, shiny pictures of kids pedaling bikes in their bathing suits, the lawn picnics, the outdoor movie nights. The articles extolling the virtues of lounging in a hammock, of slowing down and chasing your children through sprinklers. Then I remember where I live, that summer will largely be spent grim faced and hunched over our coffee table doing crafts with Harlow, trying to wrestle said crafts out of Declan's little paws while ignoring the ever-present trickle of sweat pooling in the back of my knees.
Summer in Memphis. 100 + degrees with the added bullseye painted on your back for every passing mosquito. It's two months spent largely indoors where I try to run a business from home in my busiest season, my children climbing the walls when not occasionally dipped in a neighbor's pool for a moment's peace.
This is just one explanation as to why the blogging has trickled to nothing, why Declan, if he is so inclined, will look back at these posts and wonder why he vanished from the reportage.
He is so much of my day, this baby boy who is now walking 75% of the time. He locates the scissors as naturally as breathing, makes a beeline for the stairs the times I forget to lock the gate behind me. And he is just all boy. Where "hey" was his first word, "boon" was second, "ba" is pretty much all that comes out his mouth as in ohmygodaballdidyouseetheballineedtheballNOW. Balls, trucks, anything with wheels. He grabs, he smashes, he bangs his head into furniture and LAUGHS in the face of danger. He actually seems to enjoy hitting his head, so much so that Harlow head buts him to get an easy laugh. He burps and farts and it SLAYS him. Burp back at him and you are sharing a joke with drunk frat boy who just happens to be in diapers.
But as much as he is a burgeoning meathead, he is a snuggly, snuggly monkey. He pounces on anything furry. He routinely pulls me close for a hug, burying his ever-damp head into my neck. He touches his forehead to mine, no doubt marveling at his mom's cyclops eye and coos. This closeness, this quiet moment, this is the erstwhile summer in the hammock. Then he hauls off and smacks me in the face and bites my hand. What are you going to do.