almost walked
right past it.
There in the
grass just off the sidewalk was an empty bird's nest, intricately woven from twigs, grasses, and whatever else a determined mother could gather. It was sturdy, beautiful, and unmistakably empty.
It stopped me.
Maybe it's because this feels like the summer of the almost-empty nest.
Not completely empty, not yet. Lucas, at fourteen, still leaves a
trail of soccer gear through the house and raids the pantry with the confidence that snacks magically replenish themselves. But he's become wonderfully free-range, disappearing to the gym or various soccer fields with friends for hours at a time before wandering home as the sun begins to set. David isn't far behind, exploring the neighborhood on his bike with a growing confidence that reminds me this season is coming for him, too.
Somewhere along the way, summer changed.
For years, summer wasn't a
season I experienced as much
as one I orchestrated. It was beach towels and sunscreen, packed coolers and sippy cups. Plans and playdates and a choreographed adventure every day, exploring the city via buses and trains, with strollers and scooters and tiny bags of snacks. It was making memories, one busy day at a time.
Our local park district pool, Chase Park, was a favorite destination.
I lugged bags stuffed with towels, goggles, swimmies, pool toys, sunscreen, and enough Cheez-Its to feed a small crowd. The afternoons were measured by swim tests across the deep end, endless cannonballs, and the constant chorus of, "Mom! Watch me!"
I stood waist-deep in the water with the other moms, wearing sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats, applauding every dive, every handstand, every new trick as though we were judges at the Olympics. We watched our children grow more confident with every lap across the pool, every jump from the diving board, every little victory that quietly whispered, I don't need quite as much help as I did yesterday.
At the time, I didn't realize those summers were teaching me something, too.
This year, I emerged from the same locker room leading to the pool deck carrying only a towel and a book.
I