I was scrolling through my Facebook feed and just past the awesome shared videos, photos, and annoying someecards, something caught my eye.
It said
—and I’m paraphrasing here, because through my weepy face it was a little bit hard to make out each and every word and sadly, who had posted it so I can both thank and curse him or her—
WE ONLY GET 18 SUMMERS WITH THEM.
18 summers.
18 summers!
18 is nothing. I can count them on my fingers and toes, and still have two left.
How’s that for a little Mama perspective?
The Martells are going to live and love every nook and cranny of our summers from now on.
We do have some pretty amazing things planned for this summer already—in fact, when I look at our calendar for July and August I can barely breathe—it’s chock full of Josh’s baseball games, relatives and friends visiting, sleepover camp, a trip to Virginia and DC, a weekend at Clevelands House—but it’s those little moments, the ones we waste away with “just one second, baby, I just need to answer this work email quickly.”
Oh, like you never.
I want to fill those moments with games and tag and making homemade ice cream and bike rides and girly pedicures and walks to the park and football in the backyard and trips to Wonderland and learning to play tennis and jumps on the trampoline
and
“You know, this email can wait, baby, let’s go do something fun”s.
After all, Miss Emily is already 12, Sir Joshua is already 10, and Lady Isabella is already 7. So many of them are already gone, behind us, signed and sealed away in their memories.
I want them to remember all 18. I want them to remember all the GOOD.
And I certainly want them to remember that last night I was out there bouncing around on the trampoline—living it, loving it—even though my elderly body and inner ear advised against it.
18