Pancakes with Snoopy

Spinning eight squealing little girls and cheering as they blindly bat the air- hoping for the crack which forebodes a deluge of dumdums and Reese cups.

Lunging after a baseball in the sand, hours pass in a vain attempt to reach a hundred passes without contact between baseball and beach.

Re-reading The Grouchy Lady Bug for the twentieth time, as she begs “Again, Again” and begins to recite the words.  “If you insist”

Thirty plastic fruit smoothies and invisible pancakes for Snoopy and friends.

Waking up to her unblinking eyes. 6AM: “GOOD MORNING, MS. AUS-EN”

My summer has been colored in Crayola pip-squeak markers, sculpted by little hands with purple play-doh, and illustrated by baseball-shaped bruises on my shins and wrists.

Waking up to his feet padding into our room and her flannel nighty tangled up on the trundle beside me- the Sun could not provide the warmth of their unspoken affections. 

After the “Tooth Brush Song” and quick exchanges of PJs for pants, we walk three blocks to Shoops for breakfast.  A lopsided pony tail and dozens of cow licks march hand-in-hand on the sidewalk. 

Just when I think my heart has met its quota, a set of fishy lips posing in my rear view mirror, goldfish bones stuck in the crevices of my car’s seats, and piles of sand in formerly unknown pockets remind me that love’s expansion precludes division.

I want to bathe and breathe in every detail of this delightful exhaustion.  Casting out all other notions, I want to belong to these little ones as they have belonged to me, even if only momentarily- the fingerprints wrought by small hands resonate infinitely.