Knobby Knees and Polish Sausage

Ever since I was born a girl, summer has always been a stressful time of year for me.

Mainly, because, it is generally frowned upon if you go swimming in tummy tightening jeans and loose fitting, empire waisted tops.

Swimsuits are the main fashion staple, especially if you live in beautiful, always-freakin sunny Southern California (this is why I am trying to get everyone in my family to agree to move to Siberia.....less days of the year where bathing suits are appropriate).

It is always a New Year's Resolution for me to finally fit in a suit that doesn't make me feel like a Polish Sausage in its casing. And then suddenly it's June and as I finish the last few bites of my SECOND weight watchers Cookie's N Cream ice cream (Hey. It's not my fault. They come in such small portions) I realize it's once again time to pack up for the beach and I have to feign a coma to try and get out of it.

But since having children (who at this point are no longer to blame for the whole sausage in the casing bit) I have come to almost adore summertime.

Because they look so darn cute in those tiny shorts and tank tops, their knobby little knees and lanky limbs exposed.

And in the amber-hued late afternoon, when the sun is still beating but the day is slowing down, I nuzzle into their little necks and the faint scent of spf 50 surrounds me and suddenly summer is my favorite time of year.

And my Monchichi, when asked what color his bare feet are, will glance at them for a second and look up at me with those giant eyes and mischieviously answer "ack!" for black.

And Superman comes home from school, his boundless energy a scientific mystery, and requests to lounge around in his underwear. (less clothes = less laundry!) His tiny little underwear covering his tiny little tush. Just the other day he wore a cape with them. Does it get any better than that?

Why yes, it does. He also sported one red mitten.

A mother's dream, really.

Because it's a sign that things aren't moving quite as fast as I keep fearing they are. You ask me on any given day how the kids are doing and I'm so busy lamenting about how old they are becoming that I sometimes oversee the little red mitten.

Right before my very eyes.

But I also know, sitting in-between them on the couch, with their sweaty heads leaning on my shoulders and their goofy giggles and twinkling eyes imprinting themselves into the very depths of my being, that these glorious, sun and sand and spf-filled summers are numbered.

And someday, when their friends come knockin on the door, or that cute girl from geometry calls (even after I have had the number changed for the trillionth time) not even the Deluxe Bubblemaker 2000 will be enough to keep them home with me.


But you better believe I'm gonna try.