This summer,  I sat down with my 14 year old son and discussed, in depth, porn and pot.
I took my 11 year old  daughter shopping for a swimsuit. She came out of the dressing room a young woman. A young woman that had discovered what horrible lighting, unforgiving mirrors, and a swim suit one size too small can make can make a person feel like spending the summer on the couch.
This is not a time that lends itself to facebook posts.
I look at my son and I swoon when he smiles and I cringe when he opens his mouth.
I reach for my daughter and she’s left the building or she leans on my shoulder and giggles or she takes a deep breath and explains the world.
I don’t know what’s happening next. Just that summer is almost just about done and fall means we are all moving on and I wish I could have this summer one more time
Next year. Cause it’s only going to get more complicated.
Or just worse.
It’s going to get worse. And ‘m going to wish I’d appreciated now- these past few months, even with the awkward conversations and sad revelations, more than I did.

After all, there was long games of catch in the back yard, watching Colin’s face beam as he showed me a snake he caught at Ponkapoag Lake, the way Katy still puts her hand in mine when we cross the street, lots and lots of ice cream, and more time than I’d like to admit, curled up in bed, all three of us watching Brooklyn 99 reruns.

I’m going to wish for a lot of things.
Growing pains suck. For me. For them.
But I couldn’t wish for two smarter, cooler, funnier, kinder kids.
While they sleep upstairs, I count my blessings, pray for help, and thank God for all the memories.