One week, they’re lost in the land of swords and long shadows and hide and seek between the trees and dog chasing and what summer should be when you’re five- and seven-years-old.
And then, with an open house or two, a goodnight and a wake up, it’s back to the grind.
The ease of the transition from one photo to the other came as a shock to me. Or, rather, the ease with which they accepted the transition of summer fun and less restrictive rules and later bedtimes and easy living to school year rigidity and early bed times and up early and rush rush rush surprised me. The difficulty with which I have slammed into this transition comes as no surprise, however; I miss the messy, lazy, noisy, unrushed scheduled-but-not-scheduled days of our summers. I have managed to stop crying every time they leave me behind, but if you follow me on Instagram, you know my heart still breaks every time they step on the bus and leave me behind.
“Do I have to sit with my brother on the bus for the rest of my life?”
The question came over dinner between questions about the concept of infinity and a fart joke. I wanted to reply, “Yes! Yes! Yes, you have to sit with your brother on the bus for the rest of your life. Two are stronger than one! Power and safety in numbers and all that jazz!” We’ve asked that the two of them sit together as LittleBrother learns the ins and outs of being a Kindergartener. Apparently, thanks to Origami Yoda and the other creations my two have taken on the bus this year, my youngest son already befriended a third grader. I know I don’t need to worry about them as they learn these new ropes. But I’m me; I worry.
“No, not forever. Just while you’re getting used to everything.”
“I’m already used to everything.”
I know. I’m not. They are. They’re good for each other, these brothers.