She has not usurped my authority–even in the least, so much as she has repeated my own words and gotten him to do the very things I was asking.  Only effortlessly.  And without getting upset.

I suddenly want to be her.

I think it’s her voice.  Maybe even her face.  Or the fact that anything she suggests is about the coolest thing he’s ever heard of.  “Do you want to go potty?” she asks him.  Only her hands are completely animated, extended in front of her like she’s about to hand him ice cream.  And her eyes are alive, saying just as much as her words. ”Do ya, bud?  Do you want to go potty?”  And the energy in the room is pulsing.  “Yeah!” he shouts.  And she finishes, “well, let’s go then!”  And the two of them burst by me to the bathroom and slam the door.

Nevermind that she is six.  And he three.  Or that she will send him out the bathroom door first, wearing his underwear in the right direction, beaming with success.  “I went potty, mom,”  he’ll say.  By which time I will high five his unwashed hand, as she affirms from the sink that he did a great job.  Then she’ll add, “I think he should get a cookie.”

Only I will take this moment to a peek into the same bathroom mirror to see if I’m still wearing the orange shirt I thought I was.  Or…if I’m invisible.

While I’m there, I’ll hug her or pat her back or shake her hand and tell her she’s doing a great job raising her brother.  And since she’ll decline the cookie I offer her, saying, “no thanks, mom. I just want to spend some time reading, ” I can only sit down and eat the thing myself.  His, too. 

And wonder for a brief moment…

where on earth she came from.

I’m not sure exactly when the day began, or when it’s appropriate to count its beginning.  But somewhere long before the crack of daylight, my son wandered out of his room, carefully closed his door and found his way to my face.  He hadn’t traveled light.  His train blanket was over his head, and his blue puppy was hanging from one of his hands, and he was tripping over both, when I slid out of bed and turned his little body around.  I wasn’t planning on having him stay.

It was too easy, I guess. This new bunk bed thing.  He could just crawl out, roll out or fall out, open the door, and be right there.  Which he had.  In the middle of the night. 

So, by the glow of his night light I wrapped him back in his blanket, curling the bottom up like a burrito.  And with minimal words shut his door and slunk back under my own covers.  That hadn’t been so bad.

Until the next click of his door some twenty minutes later when my little boy from his big bed showed up in our room again dragging his whole entourage and mumbling through his binky about needing food.  Only I could see the clock now, and it was 2:42.   His tummy would wait. 

So we shuffled back to his room.  Re-wrapped.  Re-burritoed.  He asked for ice cream.  And I croaked out most of Twinkle Twinkle…

He would let me lay in my bed for two and half more hours before enthusiastically fleeing his bottom bunk for the last time and scrambling up the side of mine.  It woudn’t kill me, I reasoned, to let him stay a minute or two.  Only my reasoning was askew, and it would be all the time he needed to pee his pjs and part of mine.

Ahh… the price of change.  Expensive sometimes.

But right now.  This minute.  An uninterrrupted night of sleep would be worth every penny.

Were it only that simple.

The summer we moved to Wenatchee, I learned to swim here.  I was six.  And the pool was huge.  Right there by the steps was where I had my first swimming lesson.  And where I led my own children into the water now thirty years later.

We’d paid our buck a piece (if you can believe it) and then filtered our way through the locker room to the pool deck.  It was eleven in the morning.   On a sunny Saturday.  By which time I noticed that there might’ve been seven people there.  And four of them were wearing whistles.  I guess that’s legal.  Us paying three bucks for the whole pool, that is. 

Only it doesn’t make sense to me anymore.  This colossal pool with no one here. But maybe that has something to do with moving away and finally appreciating what I’d always assumed would be here while I was.  The pool.  Only I’m not here–except on this Saturday.  And agghh…it just seems like such a waste.

Which is why, I suppose, they closed the pool for the summer, hours after we left.  And why after sharing overcrowed, indoor pools with I don’t know… thousands, that I just can’t wrap my mind around it. 

But, uh, goodness…where was I?

Right. 

The pool.

Here are my kids inching their way down the stairs.  It’s a little brisker than we’re used to.  Actually, it’s a bit darn cold for me with the wind blowing and all.  But it’s that ‘going under water all at once’ that I just can’t seem to do anymore–even if it really is less painful.  I tend to take my cold water in small doses these days.  One toe at a time.

Here’s my dad in his speedo (more on that sometime) and a few other folks who woke up before noon on Saturday and thought to swim.

 And here’s my dad beside my son who did his own series of laps on the stairs.

And here are my kids with a lifeguard who was kind enough stand beside them.  And who, by doing so, reminded me of Shelley and Cindy and Mark, my favorite lifeguards from the years when I was growing up at the pool.

And though it’s starting to sound like I was wiping my eyes and blowing my nose in my towel the whole time, that wasn’t it at all.  It was only part of the time–heh heh. 

No…I was just glad for the living memory of a place I’d onced loved.  Glad to have shared it with my kids.  Glad to have squeaked in before they closed for the summer.  Just glad.

Because it was great then.  And is still great in memory.

The Wenatchee City Pool.

I only mention the river because I miss it already.  It was our getaway this summer.  Our fifteen-minute-away reprieve from the heat; our temporary sanctuary, if you will, from the rest of the world.  Our family time.  And as it’s August now, the tail end, I wonder if yesterday’s river trip might’ve been our last…for many months. 

We never carried much.  Just  packed our chairs and enough food and water so no one would keel over, and a camera in a zip-loc, if I remembered. 

 Then we’d walk the dike a hundred yards or so and teeter our way down the gray rocks clutching children until we either reached the sand or tripped into the water.  And then my husband and I would look at each other and point this way or that and we’d eventually end up plopping our chairs in a spot where I could sit and still eyeball our kids and he could begin the next engineering feat with a pile of rocks.  And two helpers.

In all our river trips, we never stayed long. Invariably someone was near melt down or past nap or couldn’t ‘hold it’ any longer and we’d surmise that it was best to pack it all up and head home.  But not yesterday. 

No, yesterday was something special.  I think we all sensed it.  This end to summer, to dam building, to daring each other to lay down in the river, to finding the ideal stick for walking or swinging at rocks or poking your sister.  And we didn’t want to leave.  We just…didn’t…want to leave.

And so we sat.  And we ploonked a few more rocks.  And we reminisced in brief about our summer. 

And then since it’d been two hours and since we knew better than to wait until a pair of someones said they were starving, we folded the chairs and packed ourselves out.

I shall be telling all this with a sigh….somewhere–down by the river…two kids and two parents played…and I, I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. 

As it’s made all the difference.

They’d gone to the backyard to eat their macaroni.  Which she did.  And he’d started to, only something more interesting came up.  Then with only the muffled warning of their voices near the back door, they burst into the house, tripping over each other and urgently calling my name.  Whatever it was couldn’t wait.  “C’mere, mom,” they both insisted.  “You’ve gotta see this!” 

Only I recall the last time I was needed this desperately– just after lunch today. My daughter had tapped me excitedly on the shoulder and said something similiar like, I just had to see this right now.  And then she led me out to our lone, sad peach tree and showed me that our two peaches–our only two peaches–we’re turning orange and red.  I focused on not dropping my jaw and saying, “that’s it?”  I mean, I love that she’s fascinated with the fruit changing colors. And I love that she wanted to share this with me.  But I was prepared for something, well, borderline exciting.  And here we were peeking at peaches.

Which is why I knew that if I didn’t get out to the backyard immediately, whatever was there would likely still be there when I could get out.  But I didn’t treat it that way.  I set down last night’s chili pot and the sponge I’d been using and followed the two of them around the side of the yard along the path where the ivy has started to grow over the stones.  And  then my son shouted, “Look, mommy!”  And my daughter pointed near our feet.  And then since I could think of nothing to say, she explained, “it’s dog poop, and two slugs are eating it.”

And suddenly I’m… 

aghast, embarrassed, disgusted, grossed out and not far from gagging.   I’m also just…

just sorry my husband isn’t here to see it. 

But…I’ll call him next time.

It’ll be urgent.

It was a weekend of boats.  Unusual for us, as we don’t have a boat, don’t spend much time thinking we need a boat; and don’t feel like our trips to Lake Chelan have been less fun for lack of a boat.  It’s Lake Chelan.  In August.  Which, if I can spell it out here, means there’s sunshine, a pristine lake, and all the sand and drift wood two kids could possibly play with.

Boats up until this weekend were superfluous.  Things simply tied to docks.  But get a couple of kids in a tippy canoe, a paddle boat with gusty wind and a sail boat on the only windless day of the week, and it’ll be all they talk about on the way home. 

The canoe was first. 

And though we’re all smiling here, my son and I are slightly nervous.  Actually I’m nervous and he’s just working up to being terrified. 

The only person here who’s been in a canoe in the last 25 years is my husband.  Only he’s sitting up front now instead of me.  I mean, all was good up front until he told me I was facing the wrong way.  (For the record, they don’t mark those things ’front’ and ’back’).  And, I guess if we were going to canoe the ‘right’ way, I’d have to turn around.  Which meant that now I couldn’t see anyone else in the boat.  Heh heh… um…right.  If small children were to be popping over the side, I needed to know.  Not after the fact.

Hence the sudden switch.  And a little more motion than my son could already handle.

We would wobble our way westward through the drift wood to the discomforting sound of my son wheezing that he was scared.  By the first buoy, he would utter that he wanted to go home.  And canoeing would last eight or nine minutes.

By which time we would trade in our canoe for a paddle boat and be off in the same direction.  Only with happier clientele.

Nevermind that the main rudder did not work and we would pedal in circles to the left for some time before actually drifting away from the dock.  But we didn’t sway and lurch in this thing.  And for one small person in particular, steady circles were better than a loopy ride in a canoe.  Any day.

Then since paddle boats without a working rudder are only so much fun–for adults, we would park the paddle boat with a big slam into the dock and pat ourselves on the back.  Or maybe that was each of us trying to shove the other out onto the dock.  Anyway, the fun was just beginning. 

Not that I know a thing about sail boats.

The sailboat was one of those opportunities we don’t expect to slap us in the face too often.  But it was the situation where we know ‘them’ and they’re related to ‘these guys’ who have a sailboat and have invited us along.  All that.

Only it was Lake Chelan on a windless day.  Which meant that the little motor on the back of the 21′ catamaran would get more use than the sails themselves.  A tame ride by sailing standards.  But great for us since our little people were along and diving in after them was not on my top ten list of ‘things I can’t wait to do at Lake Chelan’. 

I only mention this, though, if you’re like me and have no idea what a catamaran sailboat is.  It’s big.  Has two pontoons.  Bench-like seats on each side that rest over the water.  And a trampoline in front and back where kids or luggage can sit…and get soaked. 

Here’s the ride.  Or at least the sail.  It’s up there.

And one of the seats.

Which is just opposite of where my husband and I are sitting.

And here’s the front where my daughter and our friend’s daughter is.

And here’s the trampoline part in back with my son …

And a better glimpse of the front where my son split his time.  Forgive his crack, if you will.   Sadly it’s just as tan as the rest of his exposed body.  I’ve stopped worrying about it, even in public.

And this is our friend’s brother, who made the whole sailing thing possible.

And a word about the wind again…. Since it didn’t exist, Dan here cut the motor and we stopped to dive in off the sides.  It being some 400 feet deep and all.

Here’s my daughter.  Completely ecstatic.  Or the water’s cold.  One of those.

And here’s my son.   In the water…

And on his way out.

And my son and my husband (whose arm looks like it may just snap off) back on the boat.

Then it was my turn.

Only my son thought something tragic might happen as I peeled away the extra clothing to my swimsuit. “Don’t take off your undies!” he shouted.  Then as I situated the bottom of my suit as was necessary or not, he pleaded again, “Mommy, DON’T take off your undies.  And I kept that in mind as I flailed off the side still in my shoes.

Without regret there are no pictures to show that I actually got in the water.  This I can live with.

There are, however, memories of a weekend in Chelan, where we chanced upon three boats. 

And now, smile at the thought of them all.

Our bed was already made when he slammed his door and yelled for me from the hallway,”Mommy, where are you?”  And when I’d responded with, “IN here,” he blasted our bedroom door open giving the boingy stopper a reason to exist. Then in his striped pjs and dragging his train blanket, he crawled up on our bed and patted for me to lay beside him. 

This I could do.

His little body faced mine and our cheeks lay close enough to touch. And then I couldn’t help it.  I kissed him.  And I kissed him again.  And he sat up and said, “watch this, mom.”  And he kissed my face, that spot between my lip and my nose, the place only a child can kiss.  And I told him how happy his kisses made me.  But he corrected me and said that it only made my face happy.  And I smiled even bigger.  I’d have to think about that one.

And then his little arm reached across my face and stroked my wet hair. ”your hair is long, mommy.”  And before I could say, ‘”yes it is” or “oh, okay,” he asked, “Can I see your teeth?”  And I gave him my best cheshire.  Which impressed him so much, he said,”Your teeth are long, mommy.  Can I touch them?”  And he tapped my front teeth with the nail of  his pointer finger. 

Then lest he focus on my nose, decide it was long and ask to put a finger up it, I kissed him again.  And he told he his tummy needed food.  Which I agreed it probably did.  And then we scooted off the bed.

His little hand in mine.

I yelled from the backyard with the hose still waving in my right hand, “come check out this slug.”  My kids booked it toward me with the same passion they run for ice cream.  “A slug?  Where?”  my daughter wanted to know.  Only she was looking for the slug in the same fashion she looks for her shoes–anywhere but on the ground where the slug actually was.  “I don’t see it,” she said.   And her brother parroted, “I don’t see it.”

But then they saw it.  The big, wide, brown slug, barely moving.  And they started right in with their ‘wows’ and ‘ahhs’.  Then my son glanced up and said, “I go get a stick.”  Which seemed fine–much more humane than salt.  And I dragged the hose a little further to water the rest of our petrified plants. 

 But then my daughter spoke in a serious voice reserved for adults. “He’s just going to get a stick so he can kill it.”  Which was like stating the obvious and then getting awfully emotional about it.   The death of the slug, that is.  “Um…I’m okay with that,” I droned.  Only she retorted before leaving me hanging with the hose, “but dad says that all life has value.” 

Um…

okay then.

Which is why if you look hard enough, you’re likely to find the big brown slug somewhere in our yard.  Still moving. 

The rest of his family, too.