I glance at my overstuffed, yet still grossly underprepared, luggage version of a pool bag and three wild boys tumbling around like warm, growing puppies. Cute, needy, fun, a bit nippy, always hungry, and not all potty trained. My pool experience is All Hands on Deck. My eyes travel to three bodies, the former schoolteacher in me counting the tops of shiny, soaked heads–1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3–on repeat for hours. I’m splashed with tsunami strength, jumped on, squealed at, and often swiftly kicked by my energetic merboys. We drag ourselves out of the pool, and I throw copious amounts food into their calorie-starved bodies. Then we all go at it again for another hundred four hours.
Some days I really see the little old ladies at the pool with their swim caps and flowered suits and hardback library books tucked in nearly empty pool bags. They recline on navy cushioned chaises, bathing in 24 karat rays, absorbing the written word, and then slip in the splashless pool during Adult Swim, gliding like swans in a lake all their own.
And I feel the beating chaotic tempo around me–1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3–and I wonder what it’s like to be in that place. Is it the quiet, grime-free, organized place I imagine it to be? Is it full of complete thoughts, uninterrupted conversations, and an intelligent understanding of what is happening in the world outside of a 1,700-square-foot, Lego-strewn, PBS Kids-blaring abode? Do Sundays include hours with the NYT and slowly sipped, steamy coffee? Does this place omit diaper bag scrounging for stale Cheerio-dust covered, bank issued suckers to get through the last two grocery store aisles? Is the Scotch Tape still full and intact where you left it? Please.Say.Yes.
There’s no way to know what my future self would truly advise. I’m venturing a guess she wouldn’t remark that today I should worry more, sleep less, and daydream about being eighty. I’ve been blessed by discussions with an ensemble of older generation women lately, and I’ve been privy to their wisdom, namely: live in the moment because this is the only moment that truly exists. And sleep as often as you can. To paraphrase.
I may get a kidless hour or two about once a week, but to have whole days, no, years in front and behind me without them at home to tie shoes, zip zippers, and pack lunches with little smiley notes reminds me that this flurry-filled chapter is so short. While it is easy–OH, SO EASY!!–to wish the years away in the eye of the storm for days without hourly meltdowns, the ability to cut their own food, and put the Scotch Tape back in the drawer, I’d also be wishing away the moment when my nine-year-old still reaches for my hand, when my six-year-old tucks himself into my body during bedtime stories, when my three-year-old’s arms reach skyward with a sweet, Muppet-voiced, “Boost me, Mama.”
So, while I wonder how to prepare to be *air quotes* present *air quotes*, to be here for their nine-, six-, and three-year-old selves, I open my eyes to the summer days that embrace who they are today. School will be starting in a couple of weeks, and I can appreciate these remaining lazy hours of slamming screen doors, spatula-licking mint ice cream, tomatoes on the windowsill, cherry pie on the table, pool towels on the fence. The jury is out on whether I’ll ever reminisce about the pinecone studded water/dirt/mulch concoction in the wheelbarrow bowl with the butterfly net spoon.
Big exhale. I am going to relish the giddy splashes and stale summer Cheerios today, knowing the waveless pool will be mine before I’m ready.
This piece was exclusively written for Light Inspired, an online photography forum.
Beautifully Ordinary is a trademark of Jen Lucas Photography, LLC.
