In thirteen years, when someone asks me how I spent the summer of 2012, I'll probably forget about the time I spent frowning (and smiling!) over photographs and the mornings I woke up so frazzled and exhausted that my hair crackled.
Instead, I'll remember the afternoons I spent laying in bed with my two-year-old, reading books, and eating popsicles. I'll remember how our apartment was always fairly neat but probably never clean enough to pass any kind of white glove testing. I'll remember how, every morning when the sun peeked through our blinds, I'd sleepily pull Andrew so close to me that the baby in my belly kicked in retaliation, but I'd yawn and place my head on my husband's chest anyway. I'll remember quick trips to the pool that ended in meltdowns and laughter. I'll remember how my hair turned wavy again and how Max's little smile crinkled up his entire face and how, some nights before bed, Andrew would draw him all his favorite animals on a notepad and Max would dance in anticipation, waiting to find out whether he was about to see a bear, frog, or shark. I'll remember that this summer was hot and that it kept us inside a lot but that, in all honesty, we didn't really mind.
Oh. And I'll remember all the ice cream, too.