We wait for it with bated breath, certain of its fulfillment—
The changing of seasons that brings with it unmatched beauty.
So common, recurring, and mundane.
And taken for granted each year.
Motherhood is summertime.
Sometimes it’s suffocating and hard to breathe.
Slow and perpetual—one moment bleeds into the next without you noticing.
A haze that leaves you unsure of the day and time—sometime in June, you think.
Each day is a little bit longer than the last—you think the sun will never set on this day.
Motherhood is summertime.
Wet, grassy flip-flops by the door alongside monster trucks and naked Barbie dolls.
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SNACKTIME! Sweep up later, popsicles are the priority right now!
Sliding, splashing, singing, skipping, and skinning knees.
Chasing, drying, laughing, catching, and Band-Aids for booboos.
Motherhood is summertime.
Conversations that melt like ice cream in the sun forgotten by both mothers and children that, when revisited, are without texture or richness and go unsavored.
Plans that are canceled due to foul weather—an unexpected storm in the night that shakes foundations of homes and leaves you cleaning up a mess the next morning.
Short nights that offer only the smallest reprieve for all of the beautiful living things that require rest to grow and thrive.
Motherhood is summertime.
A full silence holding the songs and laughter of birds and children with their games and flights that are too important for the interruption of a nap, and can be appreciated best from the back porch.
The smell of rain in the garden among budding blooms and welcoming mud puddles that provide a sanctuary for bees and mothers alike.
Slow mornings filled with wake-ups and to-sleep-agains.
Punctuated by belly laughs and wiggles that gift energy and motivation freely.
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Every day bursting with new growth and colors so vibrant your eyes burn and water.
A new flower blooms.
A new milestone met.
A new handprint on the storm door.
A new memory made.
Motherhood is summertime.
Air carrying the nostalgic scents that make your heart beat faster.
Quick and counting—you try to add time as a captive to the firefly jar.
A clarity that gives you such purpose and drive—you cannot waste a second!
Each day is a little bit shorter than the last—you beg the sun not to set on this day.
Motherhood is summertime.
A season filled with the busyness of all the same things.
You’ve swept up grass from your kitchen 10 times today.
But those flip-flops by the door, they’re on borrowed time.
You can’t wear them in the fall.
You’ll long for them when they’re gone.
Motherhood is summertime.
Originally published on the author’s blog
by Melissa Fenton 
