Blankets

I miss sleepovers.

I’m in the very center of summer. Hot days, stormy evenings then the clearing of the clouds to reveal a sky full of stars. I use to lay outside for hours on summer nights locating every passing satellite and giggling in delight with each shooting star. Everything is different now that I am old(er), married, a mom and always so dang tired. Only a few years ago every little thing felt important and poignant. So alive. I would read Sabrina Ward Harrison and my heart would wrench with her words. Sentences like: “We all ache. We all have growing pains and wonder if we are okay and enough and loved.” would make my heart race. I don’t wonder about growing pains anymore, I don’t think about “me” and who I’ll be and what I’ll become.  I don’t get butterflies…like ever. I’d like to say I still get butterflies when I hold hands with my husband, it sounds so poetic and is an ideal and I use to think that was the test of true love over time. It’s naive.  And I don’t.  I don’t base my love for him on that and I am thankful he doesn’t either.

The other day I was thinking about how one day Liam may ask for a trampoline.  How he will ask for a little buddy to spend the night and they will sheepishly hint at how cool it would be if Mom would let them sleep out on the tramp. Dustin and I will hedge a bit, let the anticipation really build, then finally give in and say “Yes, but you have to be quiet out there”. How I’ll find him and his little friend asleep in his room the next morning because the sprinklers accidentally turned on and soaked their sleeping bags. He will feel all the wonders of the “sleepover”. The in-your-belly excitement of knowing your friend is coming and you are going to experience the deepest joys and the hardest laughs. You’ll feel as if there is nothing more important than that moment in the middle of the night when you are still awake and can’t believe how late it is. The feeling of wandering around in the darkness of the house like it’s a foreign land, feeling slightly scared.

When I was eighteen all I wanted were moments. Sincere, deep moments. Moments with people. Moments alone. Moments with best friends and with boyfriends. I wanted to stand on mountaintops, make mix CD’s, sing at the top of my lungs and feel everything, every vibrant and glorious thing. I had the highest highs and the deepest lows and it was beautiful. And I knew it was. That was the best part. I was finally aware of these Moments. They had happened all my life, but I was finally old enough to appreciate them, nurture them and desire them. That’s why when I think of summer nights I feel a tinge of pain in my heart for what use to be. Who I use to be. I ache for the hammock at midnight or the lake at Clement Park. I miss sleeping bags and secrets. I miss having a summer anthem and wondering which boy will be the one. I miss being young, I guess. Wow, that is sad. Today my husband turns thirty. I can’t believe I am married to a man who is thirty. Either he is a pervert or I am old and unfortunately I think it’s the latter.

So tonight in honor of not wondering who the love of my life will be and seeing before my eyes my very own perfect son, I will be laying on a mountain of blankets staring at satellites and having a sleep over with my best friend. Maybe I’ll even share some secrets.

Happy birthday my love.

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2 Comments

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2 responses to “Blankets

  1. Mary

    Yea Girl! Your speaking my language! This is Henry by the way.

  2. That’s beautiful, Kate.

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