outstretched, ready for a hug and then they’d careen back through the water spray again on toddling legs, squealing with delight. I miss those babies and our endless summers.
My kids still run to me when I pick them up at camp, but now their bodies are long and lean and damp with sweat. I hug them tightly, realize for the hundredth time that they are more boys than babies. They have tales of summer to tell and I can’t wait to hear them.
But first, maybe a little ice cream.