THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, August 11, 1996 TAG: 9608110070
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: Elizabeth Simpson
LENGTH: 62 lines
I have measured summer by the cornfields on the drive from home to work.
The delicate shoots reaching toward feathery blue skies of June. Then, hotter, bolder July and the vibrance of the corn stalks that dare anything to be greener, more full of life, that seem to say: ``No way but up, no moment but now.''
And in August, the coasting into maturity before the fall. The slowing down, the quiet gathering of harvest, the resignation that winter will come again.
Many a day I have wanted to hang on to summer as I've blasted past those cornfields. I've wanted to somehow capture that full-speed-ahead quality of July, hang onto it, even though autumn will yield the fruits of summer's labor.
The days of July remind me of the age of my children. The age of no doubts, no limitations, no way but up, no moment but now. A time when they like themselves without reservation, when my oldest can look at a family portrait and say, ``I like me the best'' and sound honest instead of vain.
A time when they can twirl around with abandonment, when they can cry when things don't go their way, when they still believe that life is scripted with them in mind.
This is also the age when I'm the indisputable good guy. Right now, they want me to put on Band-Aids, they want my lap to sit on at night, they want me to push them on swings and read them stories in bed. They need me to run with them three blocks to chase down the ice cream man, our hands tightly gripped, our three sets of feet pounding the pavement.
They want me to swing them through ocean waves, to pack picnic lunches, to show them which blueberries are ripe for picking. They need me to crawl under blankets with them during lightning storms, to make shadows with flashlights until the thunder stops.
They believe everything I do is right, they think I have all the answers, the best ideas, they think I hung the moon.
Who else can do that but our children?
Someday, there will come a time when they will think less of me.
There will be a time when they ask me to sit 10 rows back in the movie theater - or better yet, just drop them off. When they'll want to go to the beach with their friends. When they'll want me to fix the doorknob on their bedroom so it locks. There will be a day when they won't believe how little I know, when they will have to teach me the ways of the world, when they won't like the way I cut my hair or wear my clothes.
``Oh Mom,'' I can already hear them say. ``Don't you know anything?'' I can already see them roll their eyes. I did that myself a long time ago. And I know from experience that it will be a long time before I seem smart again.
There will soon come a day when I will go from playmate to chauffeur. When I will go from planning activities to funding them, from tucking my children into bed to setting their curfew. A time when their ideas are more appealing than mine.
At least to them.
Even after the farmers harvest their corn this year, after they have stored the golden kernels in bins, I will know the growing season of my children is still young. That I have many more summers of being their pal, of having good ideas, of making sure the moon is hung just so in the twilight sky.
There will, someday, come a time when they grow up.
But not just yet. by CNB