This summer was my first not-real-summer. I didn’t get to lay out in the sun or dip my toes in the pool without having to worry if one of the kids I was watching was going to go face first in and shriek out in terror. I didn’t get tan. (Preemptively, I purchased face powder a shade darker than normal. Turns out, I’ve just been a shade darker in the face for about a month. Attractive, I know.) I didn’t see anything wonderful except brake lights and Colorado Blvd by morning and evening commute.

That’s an exaggeration, but for someone who loves summer afternoons of freedom, the idea of sitting on the sixth floor of an office building has been one of grief. Youth is gone, mostly.

I’ve been smelling fall in the air.
Autumn is coming, it’s right around the corner.

The mornings bite crisply even as the days reach nearly ninety degrees. The nights are scented with nature, sort of unnatural in the middle of the city.

To me, autumn means driving through crunchy leaves and dark afternoons. It means fresh notebooks (it must be left over from my school days). It means tights and my favorite tweed skirt. It means pumpkins and squash and witch decorations.

My freshman year of high school, I rode to school with a girl who lived down the street. For all of October, she had a CD of horror film soundtrack songs. And so every time I hear one of those songs, I’m thrust back into the fall of 2002, the red cloth in the Ford sedan, the CD player (she took the face of it with her every time we parked, just in case her car got broken into), that CD, and the leaves. Always the leaves – the music added such an eerie aura to them.

I love fall. I love the cool mornings and the warmth of the days. I hate how the sun slips away faster and faster until it’s gone and the winter has set in.

But the promise of fall is a glorious one.

And Halloween is right around the corner. Yay!

I promise, I’m still alive.

I’m so terrible at keeping secrets.

I am so grateful for so much…but here’s a list of my current favorites:

When I was younger, a much more timid version of my current self began wondering what she’d be like when she emerged as an adult.
At the time, I thought that I’d be all grown up by seventeen, probably thanks to the teen magazine that bears the same name.
I thought (or perhaps hoped) that seventeen-year old me would be this popular, put-together young woman.

My mom, on the garage sale:
“I’m glad you guys made some money. I think I lost money. Who has a garage sale and comes out with less money than they went in with?”

I ask how much.
Maybe ten bucks, she answers.

This from the woman who was giving things away for 10 cents.
She sold my childhood stuffed cow for a dime.
She sold as many books as kids could carry for a dollar.

Overall, Mike and I each came out of it $55 richer.

And I got to introduce Nancy Drew to some little girls who didn’t know who she was.
We didn’t sell the oak desk, so if you’re in the market, hit me up.

Small success!

Summer always invokes those beautiful childhood memories, the feelings of infinite freedom, the heat.
We decided on a picnic in the park – wine, cheese, bread, fruit, baked goods.
We needed supplies. Jacob met me at my apartment and we were tasked with cheese procurement, as well as other odds and ends. We drove to the grocery store, singing happily like teenagers.
While he ran back in for allergy medicine (ah, the signs of aging have landed), I retrieved the car. Since the parking lot off Downing is super small, I had no choice but to move my car since another was queued waiting for it. As though by magic, when I rounded the lot, edging closer to the door, easing my foot off the brake only when absolutely necessary, he appeared.
Yoo-hoo! I yelled, our regular greeting.
And then there was a quick driver change so that I could prepare myself for the picnic. Stopped at a red light, he made the suggestion and neither of us spoke in response. We exchanged glances and then undid our seatbelts and ran around the car.
Connected space messaging, we call it, based on me forgetting what telecommunication was called.

We laid the blanket near the flowers, but closer to the wide openness being taken up by volleyball players.
And we sat there until the sun had excused itself from the earth. Darkness fell softly and the bats emerged. And we laid there, heads on legs on heads on legs and we were content.

There is something so familiar and comforting about laying in the grass staring up at the sky. Trees stand above you. You know they’ll not look the way they do forever. The green will grow and then die off and fall away, only to reemerge.

It’s beautiful.
My friends are beautiful.
The night was beautiful.

However, I made the uncomfortable realization that tire swings lose a bit of their excitement as you age. I wedged my legs into the tire that used to hold like four kids, but now could only hold me, and let Jacob push me. I swung around, waiting for the stomach-dropping thrill, but finding none, extricated myself and went on to other pursuits (including the digger. Which also isn’t that fun anymore).

Ah, summer nights.

I’ve been babysitting since I was twelve.
Well, sort of.

My first ever babysitting experience was with the Cella’s infant daughter while they were off at another daughter’s First Communion.
I was fresh out of the Red Cross certification session that we did as Girl Scouts and I was ready to go. Babysitting schmabysitting, it was going to be no problem.

It was horrible.
I was never asked back and I don’t even have to hesitate as to why.
The baby was supposed to go down for her nap and sleep the entire time (thus making her delightfully rested for the after-party). Of course, when I went to put her down for that nap, she cried, and I, overwhelmed with the prospect of letting a small child cry, picked her up and played with her for the next two hours.
There was purple marker all over her by the time the parents came home and she was just getting ready to head to bed.

Since then, there’s been marked improvement.

I babysat all through college. Since then, it’s been a great way to supplement my income on a semi-regular basis. It’s also giving me a crash course in pre-parenthood, so that when I get around to procreating (not soon, not for many years) I won’t even have to bat an eye about the basics.
I tend to babysit for kids under five (I’ve got one six-year old now).
I gravitate toward babies. They’re easy. They have few needs. They haven’t yet learned how to lie. They are still amused by simple things.
However, I do like the imagination and conversation that comes with slightly older children.

The three boys (twin three-year olds and their five month brother, when I started in September 2008) gave me a run for my money. By the end of my year and a half with them, I was no longer stressed out about little stuff. I stared down tantrums and was getting better at being strict.
They were some of the best kids I’ve ever sat for, partially becuase of the bond we developed.
But trust me, it definitely made me rethink my plan for having three kids.

When I first started sitting for them, the twins were having trouble coming to terms with the fact that their little brother was there. He was interrupting their lives. “Can’t we just put him back?” they’d whine. Biting back a smile, I’d explain that he really looked up to them and wanted to be just like them.
That baby was one of the sweetest babies I’ve ever had charge of. We’d go to circle time, or whatever it was called, at the library, and we’d read and clap and do baby things. It was always funny becuase there would be a handful of parents and then a handful of caregivers like me, who sort of had an idea what they were doing in the circle, but sort of felt awkward.

I love how intelligent the kids can be. I love the way their minds work; I love the questions they ask.

One day, we were playing with the magnetic triangles that the boys had. (I loved these toys. I am getting a set for my kids one day.)
One of the twins said, “Katie, pass the isosceles.”
I handed him a triangle, taking my best guess as to what an isosecles might be.
If he could have rolled his eyes at me, he would have. “That’s not an isosceles,” he said, disappointed.

Lately, the twins here in Denver have been all about their music. Asking for classical music by name so that they can re-enact Fantasia in the bathtub is wonderful. Graham asked me if I knew who Beethoven was. “He made a symphony,” he announced.

I also love how understanding they can be.

The twins in Chicago used to have a hard time falling asleep. They all slept in the same room, so it was understandable that someone was going to talk or interrupt the other ones and general chaos would ensue.
Sometimes, when they couldn’t sleep, I’d go in and lay with them, holding their hands until they fell asleep. My last night with them, I held their hands and sang to them and then cried. (They had tricked me into the singing business by telling me that their mom sang to them every night. She definitely didn’t, and I definitely am a horrible singer, so I’d usually end up humming the refrain to a Beatles song until they got bored and asked for a new one.)

While I was babysitting for the Chicago crew, I was dating someone who had the name name as one of the twins. The other brother, Luke, once asked me if I had another Luke. I told him that he was my only one.
After the breakup, little Hunter told me that it was okay, because he would go on dates with me. He thought about it for a minute and then said, “We can put my carseat in your car.”

My last night there, they told me that instead of going to get ice cream that night, they wanted to go to the beach because I reminded them of summer and the beach. And so we went.
We always ended up messy at the beach. We’d stand with our toes in the sand, waiting for the waves to come up and wash over us up to our ankles. They’d scream and run back from the waves. I’d pick up the baby and he’d laugh.
These happy moments would usually dissolve. I remember one night carrying the baby and his tricycle (because he refused to get off), while I had two dinosaur backpacks on my shoulders as well as one of the twins. The one who was on bike wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of underwear .
Hey, at least they get home safe and happy.
That’s all I can promise.

I love intelligent, imaginative kids. In those situations, it doesn’t feel like work anymore, and it feels as though we’re just playing.

I love going to the park.
I love their inquiries.

My favorite quote from the past few weeks:

Me: Do you need to go potty?
6 year old: I went before I got in the bath!
3 year old: I went in the bath!
*Cringe.*

While I usually manage to create a routine that’s satisfactory to both myself and the children, I’ve run into a situation I’m unable to control, and one that has little chance of changing.

I call her the Cryer. It’s a terrible name, I know, but there really isn’t much else to describe the situation.
She’s eleven months old now, and I sit for them about once a week. I get there and she cries, we recover, and then she cries.
There’s no cause.
There’s no solution.
It’s frustrating.
I feel horrible, having to listen to her tears and see her face scrunched up in that horrible baby bawl. I don’t know how to explain to the parents that this is the first time I’ve ever run across this issue.

I walk with her. I hold her. I try to distract her with toys. I feed her. Together, we feed the fish and then watch them.
I’m not connecting.
But I’m trying.
Last night, she went down at seven and was up again at eight thirty. The grandmother is in town for back surgery, and I’m not wondering if part of that played a factor in the wake up. (Coincidentally, it happened the minute the grandma walked past the baby’s room.) And once she was up, all she wanted was grandma, who can’t lift her.
And so we went upstairs and watched tv.
That’s not usually my go-to solution, but it seemed to work. We played peek-a-boo with a blanket and threw some toys around.
Eventually, she went back to sleep.

It’s an adventure, that’s for sure. But I’m hoping that she’ll warm up to me soon. I’m hoping that we’ll soon be getting along terrifically.
But until then, it’s a stressful experience for both of us.

Just cried at work while reading this article: 

http://www.rockymountainnews.com/news/2005/nov/11/final-salute/

The weekend was quiet, but not terribly so.
I babysat, went to Boulder, came back down, had brunch with Emily, did laundry, went for a walk, babysat, helped Jacob clean his house, babysat, went to dinner with Heidi and Val and then saw a movie, and then went back to Jacob’s to help him finish.

Saturday night, I brought Carlos with me to Jacob’s. He hates cars, he hates being carried, he hates his leash. I don’t know why I keep trying, but you absolutley cannot walk a cat. He won’t behave. He’ll try to escape. You’ll pick him up, and for your trouble, he’ll claw you.
You’ll be bleeding, from your chest and your knees, and you’ll have a squirming ball of angry black fur in your arms. And you’ll have to throw him into your car and slam the door and then watch him look at you with wide green eyes.

And that’s just the beginning.

We slept over, so of course, the litterbox was an issue. I’d brought a shoebox, but he didn’t have enough room to turn around and get comfortable, so we were woken up by the sounds of scratching in the litterbox and then a sad sounding meow.
This was repeated.

We leashed him and took him out. He was a street cat, of course he’ll know what to do.
Nope. Went under some bushes. And then tried to get under a fence into a construction site.

It appears I have much work to do. I wonder if we could join some doggy training classes at the Dumb Friend’s League.
I wonder if they’d judge me for trying to make my cat into a dog.

Alas, we arrived home safely. He was immediately quite happy to be back at home. (I think that every time we go somewhere he thinks that I might leave him or that we’re going to the vet, where he’ll have to have surgery or some other horrible procedure. I’m hoping that enough nice outings will reinforce the fact that I’m not leaving him, that I do love him, and that he’s stuck with me.)

I woke up this morning with him curled up in my arms. He, too, hates the alarm.

He’s been eating dog food lately. I wonder if it’s bad for his health. Last time Ely brought his golden down, Carlos was relcoated, and we just left the dog food in a container. I went into the kitchen the other day, and there was Carlos, crunching on dog food. Ely’s dog tries to eat Carlos’s wet food, so maybe pet foods are sort of interchangeable.

However, I’m hoping that soon we can get Carlos to get comfortable with the dog. This may prove to be an interesting situation, and honestly, I worry more about the dog than Carlos. He can hold his own. The dog, hwoever, has a sweet disposition and a curious nature. Carlos will eat him alive.

The answer?
Kitten mittens.

Tonight, I’m going to bribe him with wet food so he’s not upset when I go to Boulder.