Summer Time Kaleidoscope

Ah, summer.

I'm sitting in a folding chair in the shade of my garage. Out on the driveway, Eli's Big Wheel is parked and forgotten, his sandals tossed on the cement nearby. The water balloons I filled were gleefully popped as quickly as I could tie them off. Now Eli's attention is absorbed by a big bucket of water. He's standing in the bucket, throwing "water bombs" -- sponge balls wrapped in stretchy fabric. As each drippy ball goes sailing, he either shouts, "Home run!" or "Touchdown!"

I could be inside. But the minute I go inside, the doorknob will rattle as Eli sticks his head in seeking help, asking a question, or telling me something important -- he saw a squirrel, he dripped water into his belly button, or the mailman still hasn't come. Eli zips off again, leaving the door wide open no matter how many times in a row I get him to come back and close it.

Earlier this afternoon when the door kept clicking open, I felt my irk-o-meter beginning to rise. I was longing to write plus I was sleepy (because of a wiggly tot in our bed at 2 A.M.) But I reminded myself that it is summer vacation and I came outside. Instant Georgia heat and humidity, but also fresh air and good company.

I say I want my child to love the outdoors, and that means encouraging being outside even when the conditions aren't perfect. And Eli wants to play with me, which always brings me joy. What I always seem to forget, however, is that his four year-old attention span means he soon wanders off on his own. That's good too. I love watching him play, completely unselfconscious as talks to toys, bugs, and himself. Then minutes click by. I'm sweaty and getting sweatier. Walking in the grass earlier made my ankles itch. I start rewriting manuscript paragraphs in my head. After a while, I slip back inside. Cool and quiet. Feeling hopeful, I lift open my laptop. Two minutes later, the door clicks as Eli leans and hollers in to let me know he still hasn't seen the mailman...

This summer, our time is made up of tiny pieces, each one with its own shape and color. One moment we're eating PB & J lunch together, Eli acting as sous chef to chop (pulverize) the carrot sticks. The next he's quietly playing with toy cars across the carpet while I wash dishes -- and work on my current book project in my head. Some days we run errands or meet up with friends. I have a free hour during Eli's daily swim lesson, yet because his floatie belt has him in water over his head and the instructor is often helping another kid, I feel the need to be vigilant. I also love watching his gleeful progress in this new, watery world. And that's sort of a microcosm of what it is like to be with a preschooler all summer. You want to watch, share in it all. You also need a little time to yourself. You can take your attention away for a few moments -- much longer than when your child was a toddler -- yet never for quite as long as you crave.

On these lazy summer days, I've already become aware of our need for repeated patterns. Neither of us does well with too much adventure nor too much quiet time. We both need company -- just each other sometimes but also friends -- as well as solo time. I find myself looking through our days and moments, shifting the kaleidoscope to make balanced patterns whenever I can. That means I'll occasionally I'll turn down a play date offer so we can stay home, Eli listening to stories on CD borrowed from the library while I catch up on my email or the blog. Or if it has been too quiet lately, I'll sift through my list of local fun spots so we can go exploring. As we become more accustomed to summer's rhythms, we appreciate each piece of time for its own color and shape as part of a larger, brighter, complex season.