Summer

It's hot today in the city, and you have just gone back to Montessori. We have two more weeks of school before we flee to Marblehead for the summer, and I am already antsy and wanting to go. I want to go wading with you, and have bare feet in the grass, and be lazy, and blow bubbles. 

We spent Memorial Day weekend here, in a heat wave, taking you on mild adventures. You took a short subway ride, and then we rode the funicular to Roosevelt Island, where we played in the grass and pretended to feed sweetgums to Mr. Snuffleupagus. We reenacted various scenes from Mary Poppins - you love the part where the kids jump into the chalk picture Bert drew on the sidewalk. We rode the ferry to Roosevelt Island one day, and home again, and then home again the next day after our funicular adventure, and then across the river to Brooklyn to picnic with Will and Irina and Clara while you played in a sprinkler. Clara, who is five, regards you with the impatience and suspicion of an older sister. Like Felix, who is also five, she grows agitated if you don't play "right" with something. My heart aches for a you a little, my baby who looks older than he is, who wants nothing more than the approving attention of big kids. But overall I'd say we had a good time, and your dad and I realized how starved we were for talking with adults other than each other. 

We're in yet another COVID surge, and your dad and I are chafing against tight strictures and stifling routine. We finally elected to take you to a different restaurant this weekend, one with spacious outdoor seating and a bartender who somehow didn't understand how to make a margarita. You sat very patiently almost the entire time, but had to get up and scramble around eventually. You are 2 1/2. Or maybe you are 2 3/4 at this point? Either way, you look big, but you are small.

Your new thing is to suggest "How about X" when answering a question, or having an idea. I'll say, Succotash, what was your favorite thing that happened today? And you might say "How about, riding the ferry with you guys?"

You still love dancing. The other day you and I scrambled over to St. Vartan and you ran at top speed almost the whole way, hollering "Siiinging in the raiin! Daaancing in the raaaiinn!" 

You have begun asking about the pool, and even asking about the boat. Sometimes you remark that you are sad that our dog died, which is interesting to me, as I'm surprised you would remember Milo, who died last August. I still talk about him sometimes, so maybe it's less a memory than a story you are telling yourself about our family, that we had a dog, and we loved him, and he died. But you did describe him accurately the other day, so who knows?

I'm wondering what to do about weaning. Nursing is starting to wear on me, but it's so important to you, and I still have some conviction that it's been able to keep you healthy throughout this wretched, seeming world-ending moment we've been living through. You have never (so far) had Covid. I read suggestions and guides and then I get emotional and then I think, is it really so bad? Can't we just keep going until you outgrow it? Everyone outgrows it. Don't they? I once asked you how long you thought you would nurse for, and asked if you were going to stop when you were three. You said yes. I wonder if we can move toward that. 

I can't wait for this summer with you. Day camp! Montessori! Sailing! Pool! Please, summer, come. Set us free.