a real mother of a summer

a weird, honest, epic poem for sweaty season

his shovel, someone else’s pail. c’est la vie.

It’s summertime.
Hot girl summer.
Hot mom summer.
Tomato girl summer.
Hobbit girl summer.
Jane Birkin summer.
*Insert another nonsense brand here* summer.

We should make a list of everything we’d like to do.
We should go on vacation and invest in quality family time.
We should drink more wine.
No, less wine.
We should go Paleo.
No, the Mediterranean diet is better, because…science.
We should finally swing those kettle bells we bought.
We should get morning sun.
We should take off our shoes and ground ourselves in the grass.
We should finally make those appointments we’ve been putting off.
We should drink adrenal cocktails.
We should buy grass-fed meat from farmer’s markets.
We should plant gardens and eat our own food.
We should pickle that.
We should take walks everyday in the morning.
No, mornings are too hard—evenings. After dinner. Thank our pancreas for all it has processed for us during the day. Call it a “panc thank”. Then blog about it. #Pancthank

We should make a summertime bucket list for the kids.
We should go berry picking with them.
We should let them volunteer on farms.
We should make sure they’re touching grass and making mud pies and being children. Daily.
We should have them play in a natural water source.
But we should have them wear sunscreen (but only zinc oxide).
We should have them drink water.
Or adrenal cocktails—
In BPA free water bottles with Bible verses on the side!
We should make sure the kids are outside at least three hours everyday.
No, four.
Five—It can be done.
We’ll have meals outside—while grounding and eating grass-fed meat and vegetables from our homegrown garden with our adrenal cocktails AFTER having swung the kettle bells and BEFORE going for a walk—the “panc thank”.
IT CAN BE DONE.

We will cut the grass.
Plant the garden.
Weed like warriors.
Have the tan.
Entertain the neighbors.
Bake the pies.
Take the trip.
Do the laundry.
Entertain the kids.

We will not think about our thighs in shorts.
Or how hot we are for not wearing shorts.
We will wear the same swimsuit we have had for the last five years.
We will remember everyone’s hat except our own.
We will pack the snacks.
Have the towels.
And the shovels.
The pail will be forgotten and we will be reminded of it in five minute increments by small voices.
We will not think about our thighs in shorts.

And then we will look up,
To catch our breathe,
And see that it is
September.

Shit.

Or…

We will drink wine on the porch
and will let the sprinkler run a bit too long so our kids can laugh a little longer
and will occasionally forget the sunscreen.
We will stroll farmer’s markets
and buy ice cream and let our children lose their shoes.

We will plant some stuff and it will die, so we’ll plant some more stuff
and it will/might live.
We won’t compare our garden to our neighbors.
Their life is different—their goals, different.
We want collards, kale, and cucumbers and that’s enough.
We will not have a tomato girl summer because we are squash women (and proud).
And the meat from Costco is enough.
And the non-enhanced water still satiates.
And store bought kombucha still slaps.

We’ll get outside and feel the sun.
We might pick berries. We might not.
We will wade into natural water sources and freeze.
We’ll remember the shovel AND the pail.
We will think about our thighs in shorts
And be thankful to have thighs and shorts
And all shall be well, all shall be well
And all many of summer shall be well.

Always,
Emily

P.S. If you’ve been needing permission to buy a box of ice cream sandwiches, you have it. You’re welcome.