Long, slow days are upon us. There is an unspoken agreement around here to absolutely ignore the fact that summer will not continue forever. We pretend otherwise. Someone took the kitchen clock off the wall as a way of milkiimagesng the fantasy. We sleep when we are sleepy, and we do things according to our inner clocks.

Just a couple of weeks left of suspended reality before we head back into a structured routine. My job will be getting it together so the rest can follow. I’ll have to break it to them. This is a chore because I know by mid-November I’ll be feeling burnt out again, as will they. Preparations for the next level of each one’s education must be made this semester. If I’m lucky, I will make it to Christmas before I hit the wall, but there will be prescription medications involved.

It’s a chore to pull two young men out of their Darwinian summer of growth spurts and increased self-confidence and throw them back into the care of an institution. The man-children have become close over the past three months. I often hear them laughing. I walk by while they are discussing something profane and their chat becomes whispered. With the pressures of the previous months finally off their shoulders something heartening has happened. They have bonded. They are a team.

No longer adversarial, the brothers understand that there is adversity outside our cozy cocoon. They’ve become protective of me, and offer small kindnesses every day.

On my special mothers checklist, I take and make a mark. One more thing accomplished. One less thing over which to fret. I take measure of this long menu and decide I am doing a good job. They will be kind and honorable men.

So screw the clock. Two more weeks of deliberate denial won’t hurt.