Today is the last day all three of my kids are home before they slide their arms through the straps of their backpacks. McKenzie’s is new, green and white checkered. It is a symbol of her struggle between being a tomboy and a girly girl, the journey of her transformation from one to the other and back again. Kyle’s will do. It’s from last year, and a perfect shade of orange. Maya’s is princess, her sister’s kindergarten choice passed down. It is her lot.

Two months between school seasons hardly seems long enough. I feel like I just carried in teacher baskets, and did my best to cease and desist all manner of panic attacks amidst graduations, parties, pick-ups, birthdays and camping plans for the day after school was out. Yet, two months can also seem much too long. Very much.

Summer came at us swinging. We inaugurated our new-to-us camper in Pueblo among cousins and s’mores and amoeba-infested ponds. We smeared pasty sunscreen and braved our community pool the first day we had free. We rode bikes and burned our skin. 

Then we crashed. We were tired. And lazy, and that’s when I began to notice a trend.   

“Mom, can I play DS?”

“Can I do games on your phone or Kindle since I don’t have a DS?”

“Can we watch a movie?”

These pleas were coming to me while the credits to one movie still scrolled over theme music. We had a problem. A habit I didn’t want to form. 

The following week became No Electronics Week. Except for toothbrushes, which aren’t toys. I’ve learned to clarify.

There was great weeping and gnashing of teeth. I didn’t budge. And I don’t think any of us expected what happened next.

The high-pitched, squealing laugh of my oldest daughter. The sputtering, exhaust-like, out-of-breath giggle of my son. The smack and flip of a set of diamonds, spades, hearts, and clovers. Cries for equality, fairness, justice. Declarations of victory. And the brave challenge to do it again.

In less than 48 hours I’ll be frustrated that I have to ask if they finished their breakfast and combed their hair. I’ll shove them in front of our plum tree and tell them to smile while they hold their bags like turtle shells. They will acquiesce. Half-heartedly. I’ll tell them to buckle up. Yes, even for 3 miles. And I’ll wish them an amazing first day, hoping that in whatever disappointment or wounds they bring home later, their lives will be fuller and richer and wiser for the experiences they encounter or the people they meet.

We’re starting a new school year, but this was the summer my kids became best friends.