Are you exhausted yet?
I am always exhausted at this time of year. Not only are my two children always at two different schools, both of which I want to commit to totally and both of which I need to neglect in different amounts, but both of my children play instruments, and thus have recitals, and my son’s school has their enormous year-end performance, which involves a lot of hard w0rk from the kids and lots of chauffeur work from us parents, and I sing in a choral group which always performs this time of year (come hear us: Ariose Singers!)…
…and not only that, but the gardens are going full-tilt — the one at home which is shaded by redwoods but for which I always have high hopes, and the one at my parents’ sunny farm, which is planted full of our hopeful little plants that need our care and attention. The weather has [finally!] gotten warm, and I’m ready for lying on the grass and watching for hawks and eagles, bringing the kids to the pool and hanging in the hot tub, and getting up not knowing what we’re going to do today.
No such luck.
Despite having made it through my son’s fifth grade graduation today, I’m not there yet. I still have to get through the next week, though I feel like we’re definitely riding that wave, and will end up successfully lying in the warm sand that awaits us. Why does the end of school have to be so much like birthing a baby? You’ve done all the work and looked at all the progress reports (i.e. ultrasounds) and you’re coasting to a finish, and then the last two weeks come.
Were there ever two longer weeks? When I was pregnant with my daughter, those weeks were made longer by the scheduling of a c-section. The midwife was concerned, sent me to the OB, who said, “Oh, boy, there’s no way I can turn this baby,” and we were off to scheduling a c-section.
I thought, wonderful! I don’t have to go through that again!
All of you who have lovely, uplifting, inspiring stories about your first birth? Shut up. Mine was grindingly awful. It took days. It nearly took my son’s life. It nearly took my sanity. So when the idea of a c-section was mentioned…
Well, my daughter had other plans. When I went in for my pre-op appointment, the OB said, “Hm, well, I do believe you’re in luck! This baby has turned!”
Luck. Two more weeks of being swollen up like Violet Beauregarde. I gritted my teeth, and I Waited.
So why does the end of school feel like this? Perhaps it has its roots in my childhood, when school seemed so passé once the weather came in. We lived in the blustery North, and we didn’t get good weather often. If we were lucky, we got a good month in the transition between Spring and Summer and we got a glorious month before the frost hit in the fall. Otherwise, it was nasty cold, slushy ugly, or stinky hot.
But instead of being out in the glory of those few days of wonder before the cicadas started their long, slow, mournful tune of summer heat, we sat in school. We all knew how it was going to work out: We knew who were the smart kids getting the good grades. We knew who won at football. We knew what the science teacher had wanted to teach us that year and how many times Billy would get sent to the office. We were kept busy with making Mother’s Day gifts and then Father’s Day gifts and thank you cards for all those great things we did. But we knew it was just busy work.
And so we wait. Oh, yes, I do love these ceremonies. I was moved to tears twice during the one today, and I’m sure the one at my daughter’s school will do something similar. But really, can’t we just get on with the other part? The part where we get up in the morning not knowing what to do? The part where the beach beckons and the woods beckon and we eat ice cream at Marianne’s and I let the kids get really, really bored and then they put aside their differences and make stop motion animation for a whole day while their cousin is visiting?
We’ll get there, but first, we have to endure all this solemnizing. All this making things all tied up in pretty packages.
Which we then neglect on the porch. Which get tattered by the elements, forgotten in the bushes. Which then sprout… who knows what? The magic of summer is that we don’t know. It’s not something we have to plan. It’s just something we have to wait for.
Like that baby, taking her own, sweet time… that is summer.
