Summerdasical

ChouChou called the other day, to see how our trip had been. (I love Chou² with all my heart but she is a Luddite. She does not use email or read blogs. She knows how to turn on a computer but she does not use it. This is oddly charming in my hyper-connected experience, but super weird. I digress).

I regaled her with tales and raved about our new friends and then she asked if I was getting back to normal. In a word, "No".

I don't even have a handle on what "normal" is supposed to be at the moment. School had only just got out when we left for Chicago and those few non-school days prior were full of parties and packing and such. It's not like there was time or opportunity to even think about what a "summer schedule" would look like, let alone implement one.

And then we were gone, and that week certainly didn't conform to anything approaching "normal", which was fitting as we were on vacation.

Returning home, things did not "normalize". This owes to Chou²'s theory that it takes 2 days to recover for every 1 day that you are out of town. If her math is correct, that means I should be back in the saddle, so to speak, by tomorrow. But then the weekend is hardly the time to be all disciplined and time-clocky, especially this weekend when The Child and I plan to do nothing but read the 7th Harry Potter book. (2 preordered copies, which we will pick up on Saturday morning but not at midnight because I'm eager but not insane).

Then I read this and this and it appears I'm not alone in my fumbling for, for what? Resolve? Order? Discipline? Energy?

But then I thought of something else. Who cares? Geez, it's summer. This is supposed to be the time of livin' easy, dawdling, being all leisurely and carefree and not bound by time frames. I always manage to forget that in the transition from school time to summer time. Summer time means not doing as much, going as often (haven't put gas in the car in 3 weeks!). It means dining al fresco as often as possible, and yes, even eating later than usual. (Although I'm pushing it with the 8pm dinnertime thing. I'll work on that). Summer is watching the garden, waiting on grapes and tomatoes. It means crossing my fingers every time I go to the market, hoping for figs. It means sleeping in and going to bed late and lounging around with a good book. And if there is any rousing to be done, it is for things like lunch out or taking in a matinee or going to the lake (there's a concept).

Good lord. It's not like we're living in squalor. I'm not ignoring my responsibilities. But golly Moses, this summer I have the luxury of fewer expectations and I need to be enjoying that instead of feeling guilty about some ephemeral and unpinnable "ought".

Not to mention, this is likely the last summer of it's kind. A) By next summer I will surely be working outside of the home (and even if Graydon Carter finally calls and says, "You simply must become a contributing writer on our staff", that will still be working). And 2) The Child will hopefully be spending next summer in France.

Not to mention, all the summers after her Grand Tour will not be like this one. She'll be in high school. She'll have a summer job. She'll be busy running around with friends, which will be infinitely cooler than hanging in the back garden with her old mum and a book. Nope. this is the last summer of a grand and glorious era and as such, deserves to be dished up and savored like a fresh raspberry tart (and isn't that a nice idea for pudding tonight?)

I swear, blogging about stuff like this is the best. I feel so much better now. And inspired by Sling, I am currently making a large pot of Scotch oats and then I'm going to invite The Child to come sit with me on the deck while we eat them. And yeah, it's 10am and we're just now getting around to having breakfast. Geez, it's summer.