I dreaded how fast three months would disappear, but I didn't account for variables that would make days fly even faster, and crunching numbers makes it worse.
Everything became wedding preparation. I stopped counting hours spent weeding at the farmhouse once I hit 30, I only count hours spent cleaning and setting up the venue there because it earns income to put toward the wedding, and I never even began counting the hours spent sitting on my duff in front of a computer doing wedding stuff because I can't count that high.
By the time they return next week, Millie and Annika will have spent 35 of the last 71 days down south or out of the country. I know because I just counted. When they're home, they're gone at work for half the time, and Susannah has joined the ranks of working women, too. Garden produce sits neglected in the autumn garden, fruit flies rule our kitchen, the songbirds have flown, cricketsong grows strident, and Annika gets married and moves in a little over a month. Our family rhythm is broken, and I'm lost somewhere here in the middle waiting for a new song to start up.
I'm grateful that at the beginning of the year, John planned some specific family days for this summer, because they've allowed scattered time to soak each other up before these days are gone. I want to slow down and savor what we have left, but we're careening helplessly along, and the rowers keep on rowing (and they're certainly not showing any signs that they are slowing).
So have at it.
July's on deck, and August is in the hole.
