seasons

Each morning (as of late) I wake up and listen to the birds outside my window. They don't even know how much I love hearing their voices, and what hearing them means to me. Each spring I wait for their song; after a long battle with cold, I can exhale knowing the birds are back and will be singing . . . until it's time again for them to leave. Lately, early in the mornings, I have to hold my breath and wait: are they still there? Because I know it will be very soon when they've decided to head South (smrt birds).

School has begun. I feel like summer was extra short this year. We went swimming a LOT, rode bikes, played and played and played until we couldn't stand the mosquitoes' ambush at dusk; and there were many nights when my kids fell asleep before they had a chance to wash off the smell of chlorine, or dirt, or sun-scorched hair, and all the other smells of summer. We didn't go shopping for school clothes: what's the point, when school begins during summer? (Plus, I get clothes for my kids when they need them, not just because school is starting again.) No 'new clothes' smell for us, at least, not just now.

I know the seasons are changing, not just because of the smell of the air and the accompanying sneeze attacks. We haven't used the air conditioning for several days, and though I will miss the carefree days of endlessly washing only beach towels, I look forward to driving up the canyon to ski down the mountains.

We've entered a realm of boy-girl parties and crushes and more homework and five kids in school, and things are crazy. And I don't even mind. What amazes me is how we can remain in one season while simultaneously advancing into the next.