This week our story consists of a mother who is missing her oldest child, a child who goes away from her often enough, but never without contact. However, for five long days, I won't hear from her, so I check out the camp schedule to see what she's doing. As I write this, it looks like she is in the middle of "Cabin Activity Period – a time for campers to sit with counselors and come up with activities they want to do most." I wonder what it is she wants to do most, and if her fellow cabin mates want the same thing.
This week our story involves a seven year old boy who spends most of his hours down the hill playing with neighbors, only running home occasionally to grab a toy or eat a sandwich. I know that it will not be long until he has become too cool for his family, a family most defined by being a little bit different. I wonder what word he will use when trying to describe his family to new friends who have yet to meet us: "My parents, well, they're sort of..."
This week our story stars an eighteen month old blond boy with the darkest brown eyes who makes the most expressive faces and runs around slowly, hunched over, making little, beautiful messes. I wait for the moments when he'll fall asleep, trying to convince myself that then I will do the things I know that need to be done. I'll take the laundry off the line and start another load. I'll send out a few emails. I'll vacuum the floors.
The set of our story is always disheveled but never dirty, not by my definition at least, although my older brother who moved in with us a few months ago might disagree. He tries to sneak in anti-bacterial products when I'm not looking. He mops the kitchen floor before I decide to get around to it.
This week our story is slow and sweaty punctuated by cool breezes, a little sleepier than usual.