The Resistance & Resilience of Summer
And the art of being left behind.
September is here, which means summer is breathing its last fiery gasps of unbearable breath. I look down at my legs, speckled with a paint splatter of inflamed red bumps where mosquitoes, spiders and fleas have feasted for the last few months. There’s bruising where I’ve scratched too long and too hard. At a glance, it’s hard to distinguish old scars from new scabs, and fresh bites all piled on top of each other.
I never used to get bit like this, I think. My legs never looked like they were literally chewed up and spit out. My feet never appeared as though I was still wearing sandals long after my shoes were tossed by the door, and the skin on my chest and arms never so freckly. I always forget sunscreen because I never intend on being outside and, yet, that’s where I am every day.
I haven’t spent this much time outside during the summer since high school when I dedicated hours of disciplined time laying on a pool chair perfecting my tan. The last fifteen summers or so have kept me inside an air conditioned office wearing pants, away from all the bugs and the increasingly punishing heat.
But, becoming a parent forced me outside. There’s only so many activities you can do with a small baby, and walking around pushing a stroller is the only way to stay sane. They like the fresh air. You like the excuse to be in public so strangers can validate your decision to have this baby, who won’t let you sleep more than two hours at a time, with “oohs” and “aahs,” as they peer into the carriage. Being outside for an hour is really the only reprieve you have from being inside for naps, feedings, and diapers the rest of the time. Early months with a baby anchor you inside your home for months on end.
Just when I was starting to come back out and into my life for more than a stroll with the baby, I was told to go back in because of a global pandemic. It was tough, but unlike the prior six months, it didn’t feel as lonely with the entire world doing it with me. Suddenly, everyone was in the bed I’d made, and it was oddly comforting. We really were all in this together.
Soon, we all went back outside because that’s what was deemed safest. Distanced backyard hangs, picnics, parks, and hikes. For me, that first summer of parenthood and the pandemic collided, and it languished on into one long mind numbing neighborhood walk after another. It wasn’t without its slow pleasures. I did enjoy exploring new routes within a small perimeter, taking note of flowers I would have never otherwise noticed, looking up the price of houses on Zillow as I passed them, and Googling facts about the many, many peacocks that inhabit my small corner of Los Angeles. Looking back, I cherish those walks and the opportunity to slow down while the world stood still.
I never used to wear shorts very often. My legs are my least favorite physical feature, and I’ve never liked showing them off much. But who was seeing me now? It was hot, and perhaps being constantly covered in pureed fruit and spit-up with nowhere to go was what I needed to tell my insecurity to fuck right off. I stopped caring. So, I brought out my cutoffs and exposed the parts of me I never wanted exposed and walked and walked and walked in shorts and continued to get bit, and bit and bit by mosquitoes.
September finally arrived, hot as ever, bringing with it harrowing and seemingly never ending wildfires that cast a heavy cloud of unbreathable smoke. Suddenly, it wasn’t safe to be indoors or outdoors, and my baby turned one year-old the day we got an alert to potentially evacuate our home.
When summer returned last year, we all warily remained outside. It just felt safer. Hot Vax Summer was a laughable blip in another excruciating year of uncertainty. We still didn’t see many people, so I still wore shorts. I had stopped pushing a stroller and started chasing a toddler. We took walks around the block, trips to the playground, and spent hours in the backyard, and afternoons exploring in local gardens. I fell into a cycle of continuing to forget bug spray, getting bit, and drifting off into Benadryl dreams every night.
I also became unexpectedly pregnant again. I was nauseous, hot, and itchy. Oh, and bloody if you count being hospitalized for an uncontrollable nosebleed. But, September returned, and we celebrated my son’s second birthday with an actual party with real friends. It was brutally hot that day, but we were happy to be with loved ones again in a normal way, greeting each other with sweaty embraces. How strange, I thought, next year year at his birthday party, I’ll have a six month old baby.
September is back again, and with his third birthday party just a couple days away, it’s hard to believe that passing thought I had a year ago in front of the sprinkled cake is now a truth.
So here I am, both three years into being a parent and a person navigating pandemic that seems to be receding –– or at least our collective appetite for caring is. I’m finding myself having my own Groundhog Day moment, literally circling the block every evening trying to get a baby to nap in her carrier. She just turned six months old, the same age as my son when the world shut down. It might as well be 2020 again for me, but, this time the world isn’t come along for the ride. They’ve all moved on, gone inside, stopped caring. I’m still out here pushing a stroller, endlessly walking, and watching my son run around the yard. I never left because I reset the parenting clock midway through the game and even threw myself a curveball with a new baby. It’s clear I don’t like sports, but I think you get the point of this terrible analogy.
Like the mosaic of three years worth of mosquito bites that decorate my legs with a badge of dishonor in not remembering the Deet, I don’t know what is what anymore. What am I feeling or experiencing? Is it parenting? It is pandemic residue? It’s possibly just a symptom of *GASP* getting older? Looking at photos from only two and a half years ago, I hardly recognize my husband and I. How do we look SO much older now? I guess we’ve been through a lot since then.
All these identity shifts have collided and overlapped, continuing to grow in and around each other in one tangled root ball. It’s confusing and unclear, and maybe that’s OK.
I’m struggling to accept feeling left behind, even if it’s my own perception. So I’ll just keep moving forward, walking and walking and walking –– even if it’s in circles. Summer is resisting this year, but the promise of seasons is that eventually they come to an end.
a book for every fEELINGggggg: https://bookshop.org/books/seasons-9781592700950/9781592700950
you'd like this one <3 it's a beauty