It’s good, is what I’m saying.
Summer is rushing by, like it always does.
We’ve gone to concerts and the park, we’ve had birthday parties and caught fireflies, we’ve visited my friend’s new brewery, we float in the pool and squeeze in work and play with the kids, filling the long, hot hours however we can.
I took Henry to his first Shakespearean play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He was mesmerized. I didn’t know six year olds could watch Shakespeare. But they can. It stuns me.
Mostly, I am in the moment.
I am worried, about other things. Writing and publishing. My mind wanders to my worries, picks over them, obsesses over them, turning them over and over in my mind.
I try to call myself back to the moment. To the boys running in front of me, my youngest so happy, he skips in mid-air. Combing the knots out of Henry’s long blond hair. Waking up in bed with Gus spread across the sheets, his soft, sweet breathing.
This is the trick.
The perfection of this life, in whatever shape it takes.