We’ve reached the wild point of summer; things always seem slightly feral at this point of the year. Even the children are weedy. Their hair (although we just cut it) is long and wild; I feel like I’m cutting their fingernails every other day. Their summer clothes I bought 4 months ago are tight and faded; their summer shoes are worn and torn. The hair on their bronzed little arms and legs glitters. They are beautiful.

Yesterday, I was relishing the wonder that is summer and children, when I stepped on an acorn on our front steps. I almost cried. I’m not ready for this to be over. The season where we are all happy and warm and healthy. I am not sure I can deal with the sickness the fall and winter brings. It’s so much. I feel fragile at the thought.

Summer is the season where I feel like I am my best self. I know I am definitely a better parent during these months. There is so much more love and less yelling emanating from me. Winter with small children is so very hard. It is such a gift to be given sun and warm weather and outside. Outside, kids can be kids. I can get a break from the parenting because outside is a huge crutch. They can run and swim and I can observe. Inside, they are more like caged animals where we have to constantly be entertaining them (and constantly cleaning up after them).

I’m writing this while also seeing how much it would be to take the kids skiing on the weekend. I’m Googling, “Is 3 too young to learn how to ski?” “Will a sensitive 6-year-old be able to ski without us traumatizing him for life?” The cost is a lot. So very much. Will we go skiing and drop $$$ only to leave two hours later? Can I wait in lines with two small children in hot winter coats and find their gloves and deal with snow in their pants and lines and rentals and everything? Is it worth it to simply be able to get outside?

We’ll try. Maybe the thought alone is enough to get me to winter without crying. Until then, I will be holding onto the last bits of warmth like whoa.