Summer's End

Summer is almost over. School starts for Luke in three days. We have been doing our school clothes shopping, following our usual pattern of dropping big bucks for Stride Rite shoes and thrifting the rest. I don’t know what happened to Luke, because in the past he couldn’t care less about what he wore, and now all of a sudden he has opinions on his wardrobe. Imagine that! I’m all for letting kids find their own style, but I’m a little worried about Luke’s particular vision for himself. As he was trying on the plain jeans and khakis that I bought him at Ohio Thrift, he looked down at himself and said, “I look like a dork.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “You are just wearing plain old jeans. Everyone wears jeans!”

“I want to wear ripped pants and a sleeveless jersey,” he said.

Later, when trying on the plain green cotton shorts I had chosen for him, he groaned, “Mommmmm, I look like a jerk! I want shorts with flames and cougars on them!”

Craig needed to buy a few things for work at a department store over the weekend, so I let Luke pick a few things to spice up the boring wardrobe that I had chosen for him. He wound up with some sporty cotton pants, a GI Joe t-shirt, a “jersey” that I told him he can only wear over another shirt, and a typical boys sports-themed shirt. Not bad. We didn’t wind up with the “I love death” shirt that Luke also said he wanted to look for. I’m not sure that they carry this particular shirt in the boy’s department. (FYI, in case you are worried about Luke’s mental health, which I was upon hearing this request, Luke saw this logo on a skateboard and thought it looked cool.)

As fall nears, I’m gestating along nicely. I feel good, am sleeping well, and finally, finally, that nesting thing where I actually want to clean and organize has kicked in. I also am starting to feel like a stuffed sausage. I think my insides are straining against my skin. I have gained twenty pounds, which, for me, is right on track with my usual weight gain, but I don’t remember feeling this full before.

Henry continues to be particularly excited for the baby’s arrival. The other day he was telling me what he wanted for Christmas—being the ever-prepared child that he is—and after listing a few toys he added, “Our baby is going to be the best Christmas present ever!”

“You are right, Henry!” I said, feeling my heart melt a little.

“I mean,” he clarified, “The best present that comes out of your vagina.”