My boy of summer

I am head-over-heels smitten with this little big guy.

During the summer months, it is rare that there isn’t at least a faint line of sweaty, blonde hair encircling his ruddy face.  I had forgotten how much I missed that from last year; that sweet, sweaty little boy smell.  Summertime was made for boys, wasn’t it—the lightening bug chases, the poolside playing, the playground outings, the endless games of tot-sized basketball in the backyard.  And after a morning of doing all of that—twice through—his three-hour nap is testimony that he used up every ounce of energy his little body could contain.

But do you want to know my favorite part?  Waking him up from that midday slumber.  Walking into his dark, cool room with the fan blowing in the background; slowly stroking his warm, wet forehead as his huge, blue eyes slowly but surely open; watching him roll over to his side like the teenager I know he will one day grow into, slowly easing into the idea that it is time to arise for the afternoon; peeling his damp shirt away from his hot back to allow a gentle breeze to penetrate the moist cocoon his bed has become.

I don’t know when memories start for children—I have heard they begin at three-years-old, but who is to know for sure.  I imagine that if George remembers anything about these summer days, it will be the fondness for those long, cool, restful naps.  Those rare hours of true independence—falling asleep at his own pace, in his own bed, and without a care in the world.

A carefree summer begins and ends with a sweaty boy.  And Frances and I are enjoying the ride.

Happy Saturday, everyone!