Keeping Cranky At Bay

Isn't it sad that children are in such a hurry to grow up? Don't you wish you could tell them that those days are halcyon and hallowed; perfectly imperfect and deliciously bittersweet? Don't you wish you could impress upon them how those years should be savored like hard candy that melts slowly on your tongue, instead of gobbled up until they are irrevocably gone?

I wouldn't repeat my adolescence for anything, but childhood? Oh yes.

Adulthood is hard. Parenthood is hard. And sometimes, I just don't want to be the grownup. I would like to think I'm not alone in that. Don't you sometimes just want someone else to fix things for a change?

Summer is especially difficult for me. I like order and routine. I like quiet. I like my time alone to write and reflect and ruminate. When my kids are home and in my hair every minute of every day, I feel frazzled and frustrated and completely discombobulated. The order I prize becomes chaos. The quiet I cherish gives way to a particular kind of cacophony that comes with having male offspring.

All that is to say that I have been a little cranky and a little resentful that all my time is being monopolized by their activities and their never ending neediness.

But one thing I've learned as a parent is that you have to take joy in things that seem mundane, but are really moments of sweet, satisfying wonderfulness amid the disorder, stress and messiness of everyday life.

After a hard won victory at the ballpark, in which Pubescent One pitched seven amazing innings and gave up only one run, we headed home. Everyone was in high spirits.

We sped down the country highway; the boys feeling very cool and superior riding in the sleek black sports car. They grinned at every car we passed, certain that they were being envied. We rolled the windows down and let the wind whip our hair about our sweaty faces. The summer air was tinged with rain smell, and off in the distance, lightning lit the clouds from within, making them look towering and otherwordly in the darkness; a darker darkness than can be found in the city. The boys put their arms out and let them ride the waves of air that sluiced past; rising and falling on the solid feeling streams. A nostalgiac song came on the radio, and Husband and I sang loudly. The boys did not know the words, but crooned the doo-doo-doos of the chorus.

Doot-doot-DOO-do-doot-DOO-doo-doot-DO-do-DOOT-doooooooooooooooooo.

It was good. Really good. And I like to think that some day, when the weight of the world weighs heavy on their own shoulders, maybe they will remember that moment. Remember us happy. Remember us singing. Remember feeling safe and happy in the backseat of a black sports car, with home on the horizon and no cares to mar the last little bit of childhood ahead of them.

Yeah. That keeps the cranky at bay for a little while.