I wanted the loose days of yore, but it’s been a bit of a snaggletooth summer, imperfect and not letting loose in the ways I would like it to.
My son will spend nearly a third of it away. Camp and rivers and songs and memories that don’t include me. Which is, of course, exactly what I want for him and exactly what hurts a little.
I wanted summer to cut loose, where days stretch themselves out into a full yawn. I’ve had a few summers like that with my son, and I can count on one hand how many I have left.
A friend came over recently and asked what kind of summer we were having. Before I could think too hard about it, one word slipped out.
“Snaggletooth.”
I almost felt embarrassed saying it, as though I was confessing something we were supposed to hide. But when I said it, my son agreed in relief. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the right word for it.” The kind that catches on to everything.
Lack of employment. Starting a business, I probably should’ve started years ago. Housing details and endless decisions after the fire. Medical issues. Camp schedules. Phone calls. Little emergencies that don’t qualify as emergencies but somehow steal whole afternoons. How do you heal your relationship with time? I think only of John Berger saying, “Time is you and me.”
Everything was snagging when all I wanted was loose.
It wasn’t until a few days ago that I finally had enough quiet to really think. Summer feels like lowering my standards yet again, only to discover that maybe my standards weren’t the point.
Somewhere in all of this, I found myself thinking about that gap-toothed smile from Flight of the Conchords and how strangely lovable imperfections can be. It’s an American thing to want everything straight and polished. Perfect teeth. Perfect houses. Perfect careers. Perfect timelines. But a snaggletooth has character. Maybe summers do too.
And maybe, crooked as it is, it’s a pretty cute summer after all. As an educator, I look forward to this season all day long, where I can finally spend more time with my own child than other people’s children. It makes you wonder when you are ever going to catch the relief you wanted, summer seeming more like a convenient reservoir for breakups than anything else.
So think about the meaning of rest. What happens when you don’t get it? And the book When Zebras Get Ulcers stuck in my mind. I really wanted a good 5 years before the fire. Now I do so much more. There are only 5 summers left. It’s gutting like being laced with sadness.
Still, we can splash in the pool. Make predictions about the next love on the spectrum essay. Try cornichos.
It’s hard not to feel like your child is a clock, but I know that’s only if we are fortunate for time to work in the right direction. In 17 houses and 16 months of displacement, I hear tales of travels to other places. Even nearby, a friend texts me melanistic Albert squirrels and monument plans just up the peaks. I think it’s time to be outside, remembering the cloudy days, and then, as soon as we venture out, it’s all hot and no shade, and I want things to stop snaggle-toothing.
I want Slippery Alley – it’s what my son calls the part of the swimming pool that has the blue lines that are glossy on your feet. Take me to Slippery Alley. Bring a bright, glittery drink that plays music when you sip through the straw, and let me slide through a few years, please
Then I realize I’m begging again, begging life for a few easy good ones. Another friend texts with a reminder not to wear beggar’s clothes – and instead just to be. So what am I? At the moment, I’m in waffle sheets under an octagon window downtown. An arm floats around me on a 9 am writing spree while the morning is taken in deep breaths. Today is the solstice, and all my worries are a season away because – it’s the only first day of summer anyways.
