I’m settling into the last two days of August, enjoying a brief – if soggy – reprieve from the oppressively heavy heat. My elderly cat has finally settled on my lap, having been forced to give up his attempt to lumber up and lounge atop my keyboard. The mosquitoes haven’t yet found me. And I’m pondering how to start writing on this first #ImpromptuTuesday back after too long. I’m feeling contemplative, so I’m trying something new today. Stream of consciousness typing. 

This may be a colossal mistake. But making mistakes, they tell me, is basically like taking vitamins. 

For most of my life, the end of August has been the last hurrah of summer, gathering school supplies, choosing ‘first day’ outfits, comparing teachers and schedules, soaking in the last little bit of summer sleep and flexibility before the structured chaos of fall. Even in early adulthood, the spouse and I had only a couple of years where neither of us were in school of some sort. 

Of course, in those early years of parenthood, fall didn’t really mean that much. Less sunscreen slathering. More clothing to swap out after a spaghetti lunch. An easier time convincing stubborn toddlers that, yes, it was still bedtime, even if the sun insisted it wasn’t. But even in those years, Nick was in school, so there was still a sense of the newness, excitement, and intimidation of fall.

This year, our first full year of in-person school in Tennessee – and the first year of school, period, for my youngest – we’ve been into the school routine for almost 6 weeks now. That’s been strange, to be in a school routine in the blistering heat of summer. But I also see the wisdom in making the kids be inside during the most miserable weather month in this part of the country. 

So that means that, for the first time in nearly 14 years, I have had large daily chunks of time – Alone!

And somehow, I’m just now getting back to my own writing.

Why is that?

I mean, there are probably a hundred reasons. Three million “start of year” doctor visits. Staggered start of the year for the kindergartener. Four kids in two different school districts with excessive amounts of paperwork. Starting a new consultancy. Two pandemic years’ worth of built up tasks that need to happen without kids. Needy pets. Blah, blah, blah.  

But really, when I sit with my steaming coffee (which I’m finally able to drink while it’s still hot), and dig under the superficial busywork that’s always floating around, I can see there is just one reason.

Depletion. 

I was unreservedly depleted. To a degree I have never before experienced. I could feel it, this tangible weight, threatening to unravel me in the weeks before the kids started school. 

I am an extreme introvert, so after more than a decade of work-at-home-with-anywhere-from-one-to-four-children-constantly-with-me-and-without-childcare-because-my-partner-was-in-school-and-my-job-didn’t-pay-enough-to-cover-childcare-and-food, I was no stranger to being at the edge. 

Back then, when the fall came and some (never all) of my children headed back to school, there was always melancholic nostalgia. I truly do enjoy being with my kids. And there was a sadness that large chunks of their discovery would be away from me. It was hard and good to let them go and watch that bloom of independent confidence.

This year was different. There was a desperation I had never felt before. A profound fear—perhaps irrational—that I would never, ever be alone again. And that possibility felt like the time as a kid where I overestimated my lung capacity and dove a little too deep in the pool. That moment where I could just about touch the surface, but my air had run out and my frantic clawing threatened to be just a fraction of a second too slow.

And I felt shame. Shame that I had this desperate need for space. Shame that when I shared this feeling just a little, I received mixed reactions. Shock. Affirmation. Silence. The reminder that so many people have to send their kids away when all they want to do is be bothered over and over and over again with pleeeeeease, mom? Pleeeeease???? I remembered my one year when Nick was the stay-at-home dad and I went to work and missed out on so many firsts that happen between 15 months and age three.

But there it still was. A need so desperate that some days I literally felt like walking was too much work.

So after dragging myself into August and having some space to process, I am giving myself a lot of grace.

I’m sure that coming into 2020 already fried and then undertaking two years of pandemic parenting, working, and homeschooling four neurodivergent kids in a brand new state had something to do with it. But also, I think I finally discovered my absolute limit for sustained-presence parenting: 14 years. 

When I say it starkly like that, it seems ridiculous that I would even wonder why I was depleted. Or feel ashamed that I was. Because that’s a LONG TIME. As the kids still say, “duh.”

I’m now telling myself, “Damn. That was a long, joyful, hard, and excruciatingly beautiful season. You did a really good job of doing so much for so many for so long. It is understandable and expected to be depleted and to need space.”

As the torrential rains fall in the way that I’ve only seen in East Tennessee, I’m tentatively tiptoeing into the last summer hurrah before fall peeks her head around the corner. Holding space for my place. Holding space for those in a completely different season. And, it turns out, I’m getting my magical exciting fall shift after all. As I peek my head into this space that will be my new normal, it feels light and exciting and disconcerting. But, I can already see how this shift is birthing a more patient, inquisitive, and awed human being. 

❤️

 Side note: HOLY BUCKETS, am I an efficient worker when every other thought isn’t interrupted by “mom!” – so for anyone else who has ever had to be a productive employee without childcare:  Cut yourself some slack and remember – You. Are. Magic.