Sometimes, I want to take these expensive play toys from my childrens’ hands and throw them out the window.
I never would.
Just read, please, is what I want to say.
Already, this picture dates itself – taken a few weeks back, those red leaves are gone, the trees are bare. Sandy took care of that.
The kids in the morning as I stand with a sweater pulled around me, yawning. This year has been a different start for all of us. A walk to a bus stop with a friend for my daughter. A bike ride or scooter glide to school with buddies for my son.
And me on my own, making my way back home to an office and a cat, after I watch both kids disappear around the corner. If they were to look back and see, I think they’d think: Why is she still standing there? But they don’t look back.
The kids start swimming lessons again, this time on Saturday mornings. My son must wait patiently (impossible) for his turn as my daughter’s class is first.
She is in a semi private with another girl. This girl is tiny.
She is some swimmer, too. Her little legs propel her forth, her little arms working like the paddle wheels on a steam boat.
My daughter towers over her.
My husband and I check out the new Marshalls. It’s obscene, the buys I find. Not so much for me as the kids.
I grew up with preppie parents. Loafers and argyle, polo ponies and buttondowns. I knew what khakis were when I was four. My dad pronounces it Kar-keys, though.
I fought the preppie when I was in my later years in high school. Wore stove pipe pants and bowling shirts.
My dad worried that I was turning bad.
I’m not a big labels person, mostly because I can’t afford The Row or Betsy Johnson or Marc Jacobs.
But I’m so excited to bring home some US Polo for my daughter, some Izod for my son. I rediscovered preppie years back. It’s in my blood. Can’t fight it.
I do find a giant bag for myself, made of woven material.
My daughter has yet to wear her polo pony dress. I might have bought it with my eyes, not hers.