Our last day of school is June 20th, a week from tomorrow. Originally, it was supposed to be this Thursday, but we had a couple of snow days to make up. Students -- and teachers, for that matter -- complain about how ridiculous it is to come back after a weekend for one day after finals, as the last day of school ends at 10:00 a.m. (and "classes," if you can even call them that by then, are only ten minutes long), but I don't mind. I mean, we have to have our 180 days, so whatever, and am I really the only person who rather enjoys having the last day as such a "blow-off" day? Because to me, there's sort of a celebratory feel. A lot of kids won't be there, which is fine, but for the ones that do come, it's about signing yearbooks and hanging out and getting some sort of stress-free closure to the year. The rest of the day is for teachers to work on finishing up grades and signing out and getting our classrooms cleaned up and put away, although my plan -- as always -- is to be as organized and efficient as possible so that my day, too, is finished shortly after ten. Since I've had children, the last day of school means that if I have my act together, I have a sweet day (or at least a few sweet hours) of free time, during which I don't have to worry about lesson plans or grading papers or anything I should be doing. Usually, I go home, or I go to a coffee shop, and I read for a long time. In 2007, I read The Light of Evening on the last day of school, a lovely novel by Edna O'Brien. In 2008, I read Thirteen Reasons Why in almost one sitting at Starbucks. (In 2009 I was just a week or two into my second trimester of pregnancy, but I was still extremely ill much of the time. I remember wanting to read The House of the Spirits, but every time I tried, I felt carsick. Instead, I came home and ate some spring rolls from Trader Joe's because that's what sounded good but didn't make me feel much better and probably took a nap.) This year, I plan to book it out of school as soon as possible, take myself to Poverty Bay for a really good vegetarian sandwich, and spend the rest of my free early-afternoon hours reading either When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead or one of the books I've borrowed from Kyanne before diving into my self-imposed summer reading list.
Anyway, even though I technically have school a week from tomorrow, I've been thinking of today as my last real Sunday of the school year, the kind that brings with it the inevitable Sunday Blues. Although the Sunday Blues are significantly less blue for me than they were before I had children, probably due to a combination of things, such as my part-time schedule (easier to be angsty on a Sunday night before a very early morning), the fact that several years of experience mean I'm generally not scrambling to figure out lesson plans at the last minute, and my desire to be present for my family that allows me to put aside things that otherwise might nag at me a bit more persistently. Still, I get them, and I realize that I probably bring them upon myself more than I need to -- even if I have a relatively stress-free weekend, even if I've managed not to bring home any work. It's a feeling I associate with late-afternoon light, the way I feel after the nap I usually try to take, the way the dishes seem to build up in the sink a little more quickly, and the way dinner plans seem to get lost somewhere in the afternoon and before we know it the evening is closing in on bedtime and we're still chopping vegetables. It's not my favorite.
At the same time, part of me, today, appreciates even these moments. Of course, it's easy not to feel too stressed on the last real Sunday evening of the school year, despite the pile of things I know I need to do this week and the fact that it's nearly eleven o'clock and I'm nowhere near going to bed myself yet. (I could, but I'm obviously choosing to write instead.) But maybe it's a little like the way I remember the weeks following Isaac's birth. I remember them so fondly, and to be honest, they weren't nearly as difficult and exhausting as I imagined they would be (I think I'd set very low expectations). At the same time, there were days. Days in which I looked down at myself at the end of the day and realized I hadn't managed to shower or change my spit-up-stained, milk-stained, probably tear-stained shirt. Days in which I wondered how I'd make it until Matt got home from work, or even until the kids' naptime, if naptime even happened. Days of juggling the needs of my three-year-old and the needs of my newborn and feeling as though I couldn't possibly do either one well. Wondering if I'd ever read a novel again, or write anything more than a fractured journal entry. And weeping because I knew that those moments were passing so quickly, sliding right through my fingers, and despite my desperation and feelings of inadequacy in the face of my children's need, I wanted to hold them close -- just like I wanted to keep and hold the moments of utter contentment and peace. Holding Suzannah's hand and wearing Isaac on my chest as we walked to the playground, to Starbucks. Curling up in my daughter's bed with her and reading stories, curling up in my own bed with my tiny nursing boy. My baby sleeping on my chest. Suzannah holding her brother. Lying in bed with Matt, our children between us. Those are the obvious moments, of course, but the picture isn't complete without all of it -- it needs the memory of tears, the defeat of a messy house and tantrums and piles of unfolded laundry, the worry, the fear, the anxiety, and even just the little ordinary moments that make up a day. The nursing baby, the little battles and negotiations with a willful preschooler, the daily rituals of making lunches and reading stories and taking walks and coming home.
When I think back on those early days of learning how to be a mother to two children, I want to remember it all. I wouldn't wish myself back to some of those days; postpartum anxiety is no picnic. But I cherish it all. All.
And that's how I feel tonight, a little: nostalgic in advance for the life I'm living now, even the days of Sunday Blues. I imagine my future self remembering my life now and remembering all the ordinary details of our weekends. The ways we might tend to be a little snappish with each other as we try to get out the door to church on time, for instance -- it always makes me a little crazy that we can never manage to get the breakfast dishes cleaned up. But then, about halfway to church, Matt's fingers find mine in the middle of the car, and we smile, and things are okay. And afterwards, we stop by Target and Trader Joe's, and there are little presents we give ourselves: Tahitian vanilla caramels and wine, maybe, or the portobello mushroom ravioli we like to have on hand for an easy dinner. At home we eat a thrown-together lunch, a sandwich for Suzannah and leftovers for Matt and me and pretty much anything for Isaac, and after the baby goes down for his nap and Suzannah goes to her room for a little "quiet time" (maybe a nap, but usually just quiet playing or reading) I curl up on the couch in the living room and doze off to the sound of the dishwasher, the pug snoring in the space behind my knees. I always intend to take just a short cat-nap, but if I'm especially tired this might be my best sleep of the weekend, and sometimes I don't wake until Isaac does. But then I feel groggy, and suddenly the afternoon is spinning into evening and there are papers to grade or laundry to transfer from the washer to the dryer or dinner to figure out or any number of things I'd planned for so optimistically on Friday. Matt might take the kids to the library or for a hike at Hylebos, which gives me a window of time in which to accomplish any of these things, but it's both too much and not enough. I don't check off everything on my to-do list, but I find myself looking at the clock and wanting my little family to come bursting back through the door.
Dinner is often too late. The kids are often awake too late on Sundays, later than they normally are on weekdays. I feel edgy for reasons I can't necessarily pinpoint. But when I remember Sundays, the whole picture -- the weaving of the blissful, the comfortable, the ordinary, and even the anxious and edgy -- is what makes the memory beautiful. It's what makes it last.
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