Summer is a tumble: library books and toys sneaking into the far crevices of the house, an endless parade of snack requests even when the meal I’m preparing is only ten minutes away, another overstuffed dishwasher to unload, piles of grass-stained laundry to wash and cleaned clothes wilting in piles to be folded.
For the kids, summer is languid basking in the freedom from recurring commitments, a freedom which too soon becomes gnawing boredom, followed by predictable demands for parental attention. Soon they won’t want anything to do with us, I’m told, but right now attention is the currency of the realm. There’s hardly a moment they don’t seek it.
Desperate for time alone, I wake up ever earlier. I tiptoe carefully past their still sleeping forms to the chair where I settle in with muscle memory, early enough to watch the gray sky bloom pink as I clear my mind and come before God in silence. This daily haven of quiet, a vital reprieve from their demands, feels like water. I depend on it to have any hope of being with them in the chaos without combusting.
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