Remember when they were babies? We all worried about whether we should sleep train, fretted about the safety of sleeping with babies in our beds, and spent a lot of time Googling things like “importance of wearing your baby.” We debated types of diapers and pretended not to join in the debate over breast v. bottle while either smugly flaunting our nursing or defensively declaring the adequacy of our formula. Hell, we even attached some significance to whether we got painkillers during childbirth or managed to push the baby out our v@ginas rather than getting a c-section.
During those early days, everything we did seemed to have so much importance, to mark us as good or bad parents for eternity. What we didn’t realize then was that, five or six years down the road, none of it would matter. It would be sound and fury signifying nothing.
Because all that would count would be surviving September.
Fucking September. When the weather turn lovely and the leaves start to change color and the school forms flow freely. When the lazy days of August spiral into the frantic pace of back-to-school nights, oh-my-god-it’s-49-degrees-in-the-morning-and-the-kids-are-still-wearing-their-summer-sandals-to-school, and (if your school still has such niceties) renting a violin for the fourth-grade symphony. When the PTO emails you daily. When you’re trying to put away the summer clothes and go through the fall hand-me-downs, and you suddenly realize there’s not a sharpened pencil in the house for your kid to do his homework. Or a pencil sharpener. So he’s doing his homework with a Sharpie.
For those of us of the synagogue persuasion, there’s also the High Holy Days. And, in my house, three birthdays.
Take heart, my friends. September is almost over. We’re nearing the finish line. It’s almost October.
You might want to get on those Halloween costumes.