Mrs. Flinger: Blog

This year the leaves are not the only things changing this season. My oldest starts first grade, my youngest moves in to Montessori, I turn thiry-five. I am not ready in the same way my Mother used to tell me how Christmas came too early. As a child, that sentence, “Christmas can’t be here already?!” was as unfounded as it gets. Christmas too early? Mom’s gone crazy again.

I am not ready.

I drove away this morning, literally crying, as I left my son for his last day at his daycare. He waved, blew a kiss and signed “I love you” as our usual drop-off routine necessitates. But this time, I was crying, thinking of how much he’s grown and learned, remembering back to the first few times I left him there, scared, worried, watching him cry as I walked away. He’s become a boy there, a real boy, growing from an insecure toddler into the healthy, funny, loving little man I enjoy today.

I have to thank the the people who loved him while I was gone for that.

I remember so vividly my summers at my baby-sitter’s house. I think of her sometimes as I parent my own children, flashing back to 1982 playing outside with her daughters as she cleaned the house or made our lunches. I remember her like a second mother to me, as much of an influence in my life as any adult I’ve known.

People who raise children, don’t only raise their own.

It truly takes a village.

So to my son’s village, to the ladies who have kissed owies, and changed diapers, and read stories to my son when I wasn’t able to: Thank you. Thank you for being such an amazing influence in his life and for teaching him in ways he will subconsciously always take with him. He’s a lucky little man to have had this time with you all. You will be missed.

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Mother Nature has been bit of a tease to Seattle this summer, leaning in at the bar just enough to show some cleavage before pulling back and slapping our hand. She buys us a drink, a day of sun, maybe three, and then pushes us away when we reach in to make-out with full on tongue. We purchase sunscreen and sunglasses. We plan camping trips. And then she pulls away, douses our hopes of getting to third base with a week of mist and drizzle at 56 degrees.

In fucking August.

So we walk around, with our proverbial blue-balls, just waiting for the cold shower of month after month of drizzly gray skies. We find ourselves conspicuously purchasing lotion: plane tickets to sunnier states in an attempt to tell Mother Nature, “it’s not you, really, it’s me..” lying the entire ride to the airport.

We wave a middle finger at her as the plane takes off for Arizona or Hawaii, places where the sun kisses our skin, and oceans and pools lick our toes. All the while we know we’ll return to the proverbial ball-and-chain at home.

We know, for a fact, while our grass is greener, our balls are blue.

*This post brought to you by the first cool day of the season following fourteen pretty chilly weeks of what the rest of the states call “summer.”

**I realize I happen to live in the woods on an acre and my house never gets above 60 degrees so this may be a somewhat skewed view of the summer.

***I’m sure someone here got sweaty this year.

****I probably need therapy for equating Mother Nature to a hussy.

*****I’ll get right on that.

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