I think it’s safe to say that summer always feels a little sped up once the 4th of July hits. My kids’ school year ends in May. Our halfway point is the last week of June. But whether your family’s school year finishes at the end of May or the middle of June, there’s something about that “halfway point” (which is nowhere near really a halfway point of anything) that makes you start looking past your summer days. Is it that school suddenly seems upon us again, even though it’s still light outside at 9 p.m.?
Or is it just August?
August is hot and sweaty, but she’s so far removed from the summer wonder and anticipation that June brings. We’re tired of summer now. The allure of a pool day is gone, replaced with wanting to freeze ourselves into blocks with the air conditioning. My family’s summer bucket lists are unfinished, the excitement of those first few checkmarks long gone. I don’t have the strength to plan an outdoor movie night anymore.
August is the boyfriend you have for a little while and it’s all exciting — big adventures tubing on the lake and day-drinking in the sun and staying up late, your heart eager for more and more and more. And then suddenly, you’re over it. You want to eat a real meal that requires planning and grocery shopping instead of charcuterie boards and wine and you want to go to bed at a reasonable time again and you want the magic to wear off just a little bit so you can catch up on all the episodes of The Bear you’ve been missing.
August is summer, but not really. Down south we’re back to school in a week, so we’re already jumpstarting our routines a bit so that our kids remember what it was like to go to bed at 8 p.m. without YouTube Kids blaring in their ears. But it seems even those who aren’t going back for a couple weeks are getting ready by now; August is that point where you have to start thinking about school clothes and new shoes. There are sign-ups for a new season of ballet and soccer, you get the Open House info in the mail, you start imagining what it will be like to bathe your kids again.
I start looking ahead, imagining August as this little blip that stands between us and the holiday season. September is full-on fall, no question about it, but August? She’s unsure. She wants to be fall — she watches Dunkin’ and Starbucks announce their fall drinks earlier and earlier each year. She wants you to dress your kids in corduroy jumpers embroidered with apples, but she’d also really like you to get your ass back to the splashpad because when it closes in a few weeks, you’ll be whining about how much you missed it.
August is hazy and slow, sped-up and technicolor. It goes by in a snap, but it also drags on. It’s a weird month of change and uncertainty, like a redo of New Year’s Day. It’s a time of thinking about Halloween while also buying more sunscreen for the weekend pool visits. The bubble wands and sand toys are gone from the Target aisles, replaced by backpacks and pumpkins, but it’s still over 90 degrees outside and the fireflies are everywhere.
I want to soak it in — the last little chunk of summer — but I can’t stop myself from looking forward, thinking ahead, daydreaming about what’s to come. You are both in the present and the future, already referring to the days you’re living as “this past summer.”
It’s not that we don’t like August, she’s just… weird. It’s like a lukewarm bath — maybe like the pot they boil lobsters in or one of those afternoon naps where you sleep too long and wake up with drool on your face and the couch cushion imprinted on your cheek. You didn’t know what was happening and then suddenly, you did.
August is here for you while you mosey on through the rest of summer. She inspires you to slow down, take it easy, but look ahead a bit, too. She is no pressure, she is chill, she is your friend who says “whatever you want to eat is fine” and really means it. She’s not feral summer and she’s not routine fall — she’s just August.
She’s a weird place to be.
Samantha Darby is a Senior Lifestyle Editor at Romper and Scary Mommy and a PTA soccer mom raising three little women in the suburbs of Georgia with her husband. Her minivan is always trashed.
