A teacher friend of mine calls August, “the Sunday of summer”. The month when the easy, breezy days warm days start to morph into fall – back to work, back to school, back to reality. I work everyday, every season. Did I mention I got a job? Anyway, I do know how she feels.
As our children get older, their independence is amplified during the summer. They’re rarely home for dinner, out all day with friends or working. It’s normal. We were their age not too long ago (okay, maybe long ago). Sometimes, we miss having them around: beach days, movie nights, playing board games, sitting outside gazing at stars and catching fireflies. So, this August, we took a family trip to the Bahamas. Six fun-filled days with only the four of us, digging our toes in the soft white sand, next to a turquoise ocean so beautiful we couldn’t keep away. We had nowhere to go and all day to get there. We enjoyed every meal with the boys, these men, catching up on their lives, their thoughts and summer experiences. It was blissful.
After dinners, we roamed the huge hotel casino and found a jazz lounge where we spent most nights listening to a band called The Essence, singing along to songs of Anita Baker, Gladys Knight and Michael Jackson while sipping martinis. Good times.
Our lovely vacation came to an abrupt halt when, merely 48 hours after we landed at JFK tanned and rested, our car was packed to capacity with the belongings of our older son. Leaving the younger one at home, due to space constraints, we made the eight-hour drive to bring our college student to school for his sophomore year.
The drop-off experience this year had a different vibe for sure. The mood permeating the car was less anxiety and fear of the unknown and more a subtle sadness that he was leaving us again. Even our son felt it, mentioning more than once just how fast the summer had flown.
Yes. It seems to pass faster every year. I have a high school senior at home. Next year, we’ll be whisking him to an institution of higher learning (God willing). And then, it will be me and my husband. Again.
Feeling wistful, I expressed my thoughts on the drive home while my husband silently focused on the double-yellow cutting through the fields of PA. Exhausted, we pulled into the driveway, unpacked what was left in the trunk and returned to the house, to work, to our daily routine, trying not to miss the boy and life as it was once.
Today at the office, I received an email from my love. It was an invitation. Four words.
Friday. Beach. Dinner. Wine.
Well, okay then.