September When It Comes

For the first time in my whole, entire life, I am sad to bid adieu to August.

The state-park people are preparing to shut down the girls' favorite swimming holes.

Cade is getting ready to start sixth grade. I taught sixth grade, once. It made me want to poke my eyes out with a stick. Every day, for nine straight months. If my sixth-graders passed (the first time) seventh through eleventh grades, they're rising seniors. How weird! (I wonder if I can find a way to crash their graduation, in May?) But not as weird as the fact that my son is getting ready to start the dreaded sixth grade.

Maybe Cade and I will be ok.

On Monday, the girls were napping, and Cade was lying on his bed, drawing. I'd eaten poorly on Sunday, so my stomach was bothering me, and I was tired from the weekend of camping. I crawled onto Cade's bed. "What're you doing, Mom?" he asked.

"I'm not feeling so hot," I said. "I just want to lie near you, while you draw, and rest."

And do you know: that boy pushed aside his paper and pencil and turned around so we were no longer lying head-to-feet. He drew near me and shared my pillow. At one point, I startled myself with a little snore, and I opened my eyes to look directly into his. He was grinning.

Then he pressed his forehead against mine, and we both slept. I can't remember when we'd last napped together, but he (with his shneck injury) wasn't feeling well, either; in fact, we were awakened by his dad, who'd come to take Cade to the doctor. The funny thing is: we were sleeping so soundly that Jason had to call from his cell phone; we didn't hear his knocking.

(Cade was instructed to return to the doctor if his shneck weren't better, today, but I hear it's much improved.)

Goodbye, August. I will miss you. (But thank you for taking fourteen of my pounds with you!)