It's warm today, the nice kind of warm where we can sit outside in comfort. A gentle breeze rustles the leaves on the trees, providing us greater comfort. Summer has begun.
In the distnace I can hear birds tweeting and trilling, dogs barking and howling, airplanes overhead. All of these sounds pale in comparison to the sound of pages turning quickly beside me. My son has decided to reread his Hardy Boy books, and he's devouring them like they're dessert.
While we can hear the burbling of the hot tub as it waits for us to get in, we can/t. My son with his fractured arm, me with my lasik-enhanced eyes. Neither of us can go near the water.
We've played the "what do you want to do game," but neither can agree. He wants to ride his bike, I want to go shopping. He wants to play Monopoly, but I want to side outside. Really, the time to relax is nice.
I love how he scoots his chair next to me; he's crawled in bed the last couple of mornings to cuddle. I treasure each of these small gestures, storing them to recall when he's no longer interested in hanging out with me. Until his broke his arm, he wasn't interested in spening much time with me, and we had already begun to plan what he'd do. But now, he's my little prisoner, at least for a few days.
I never thought, when he was a baby and I was too tired from working and earniing another degree, that our time together would run out. It's like watching the sand in an hourglass run out; I'm watching his childhood run out, and it seems to run faster and faster as he grows older.
So whle our summer hasn't been exceptionally thrilling to this point, it's been good. We're together, and that's all that matters.
