School for my older three started today. I wasn't ready. I wanted more summer, more lazy days, more room to putter and piddle our time away. I wasn't ready for alarm clocks and routines, carpool lines and lunchboxes. My children, while excited for a new adventure and a new year, felt the same. We were all in a state of denial these past few days as we bought paper and pencils, binders and uniforms.
I think with the move, a lot of our summer got swallowed up in some sort of vacuum, never to be heard from again. And now the fall is rolling in-- there was the slightest hint of it in the air today as we arrived back home after taking my middle schooler to his school. The three youngest played on our swingset while I did housework, all of us settling into a new life, a new routine. And as we did, I began to accept this inevitable turn of events, embracing the possibility and hope of a new school year mixed with the slightest twinge of sadness. I recently read that you only get 18 summers with your children. That's it.
And one of them just slipped by me. I can try to preserve it with photos and stories. But the truth is, it's gone forever.
I wasn't ready for it to be over so soon.