Sweet, Sticky Mess

 

It’s summer and the days are full of popsicles and pool time. Dripping wet, sticky and sand caked they run run run through the days. What’s one to do with all this sunlight? Tired mama dropping down on the couch when the light finally sinks past her bedtime and they are up at the crack of dawn to soak it all in again. Sunlight for days and it’s their job to discover all the wonder this world holds. And they cry and whine when they find it’s not all fun and games, everything doesn’t go our way even on such a magnificent planet. So we break out the popsicles and run to the beach, determined to revel in these days, the water washing washing . . .

I want to scoop it all up, hold it in these weary hands but the moments melt and run down my arms like ice cream on a warm day. Sticky mess leaving a sweet taste and smiles. Sweet taste worth all the mess, better for it’s uncontainable flight. I snap the shutter and catch a moment or two. I love how he points, pudgy fingers stuck together so precise. “This I can show” he thinks. I soak his magic up, immersed in his golden hair, my cheeks drawn to it’s silken mess. I grab at chubby tummy and toes, hungry for them, cradling his perfect self, stroking his upturned nose while he nurses. My boy going on young man has golden hair on his back and a fire crowning him. I thrill when he tells me  a secret thought, brings me into his confidence and shares his fresh wisdom. And they all go from the edge of crazy to contemplating great depths in an instant and I sit back and watch. I watch them grow and run and suck up summer, thirsty for all it has to give. Their lust for life, wears me out and gives me reason to live. Live and dance silly in the living room, splashing canon balls in blue water and riding with the wind in our hair to the beach. This is summer and it is good, fueled by watermelons and s’mores, singing round the fire all a sweet sticky mess. Planting, watering and looking for caterpillars and crickets.

They run full blast in the now, exuberant and exhilarated to heartbroken and despairing and back again in an instant. I know better, can see past the broken toy, the spilled crackers and sadly I know the perfect moments won’t last either. I line them up like he puts his insects in rows, caging them in little boxes. Most wither and die but some transform, spinning cocoons and emerging more beautiful than before. I try to pin them down, his butterflies perfect wings preserved forever under glass. Time isn’t that tidy, it spills all round me and the most I can do is go with it. Try not to bring it all crashing down, try to keep up, try to slow down and let the sweet mess melt, run all down my face and onto hands held wide open