I know, probably once a year I come on here and bemoan All The Things and apologize for Not Posting Regularly. Blogging is such a peculiar art as, with most online media, one feels like one has to be present all the time, and if one is not, one feels one owes one an explanation.
(Too many Ones?)
But I'm not going to do that today.
Today, I'm enjoying the grand stretch in the evening, the sunlight that wanders out past bedtime and into summer twilight. This is the golden season in Ireland. Summer here is a finicky thing, so that when we feel the warmth inside our cottony layers, we cancel all other the plans and simply revel.
In fact, at this very moment, I'm sitting in the back garden, surrounded by leaning bikes and lazy anemones, wooden beams and scraps that will soon become a loft bed for Asher, still able to make out the pale haze of the setting sun. Summer solstice is just five weeks away and I hope every night till that night is as grand as this one.
Spring was gloriously busy, in as much as one can find glory in busyness. Truthfully, we did glory in it a bit as we are not always very busy, and when we are, we try to make sure it's for a darn good reason. The Lent exhibition, Easter holidays, seminary classes and other work/life requirements kept us exhausted, but happy. Matt stayed up till midnight or 1 am most nights doing school work, I fell asleep to old Homeland episodes and current On the Media podcasts. The children mostly got on well and I mostly puttered around the house, occasionally writing, sometimes venturing beyond the suburbs into the particularly Irish blend of small city life.
And then I spent two weeks mostly in bed. But we'll skip that part.
So these here are good days, the days of homework in the front garden and lax bedtime routines and the eldest off with his friends. Of tea in the back garden at 9pm. Of bike rides and Saturday morning hikes and a Sabbath on the beach. I keep catching myself, warning myself, Remember this. Remember. Oh please, don't forget
how his 7-year-old hand feels on your arm when he rolls over with the sun.
how her hair flies as she runs, slow and steady, no shame in not coming in first.
how he sneaks into the sitting room to watch Brooklyn Nine Nine with the adults.
I know someday I will look back on these days and curse myself for losing even a second of it. So for today, I will commit as much as I can to memory. And tomorrow, I'll try again.