September Scaries vs. Second Summer

Bath popsicles are the new shower beers.

Hi!

Perhaps more than usual, I’ve noticed some stressing about the back-to-school season—perhaps because conditions are more stressful in general (slide into fascism, etc).

I used to love the back-to-school vibe of New York in early September: Fashion Week, splashy art openings, the US Open, etc. Here in LA, that’s somewhat missing, but I’ve relished how much September doesn’t feel like the end of summer. In a way, it’s only the beginning. The June Gloom is well and truly gone, giving way to sunny mornings and warmer ocean temps that often last well into November. It’s Second Summer—a window for sneaking down to the beach to surf without a wetsuit on a weekday after dropping the kids at school. One of my happiest, sparkliest Venice mornings ever, riding waves so clear I could see the fish and rays shimmying out in either direction beneath my board, took place in November. Deep Second Summer.

But this year, I got sort of blindsided by the September Scaries. Both my girls (ages 2 and 4) are in new schools, and got off to strong starts with matching strawberry lunchboxes. But then, when Corey left town for a week of work and family obligations, things went sideways in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

It started with hundreds of bees swarming outside our living room window and the subsequent discovery of thousands living in our wall. Then came fevers that kept the girls from sleeping or attending school. And then, when Lua and I were already sitting awake on my bed at 2:30 am, debating whether her sore throat would impede her from swallowing Tylenol, the doorbell rang. Our doorbell has an old-fashioned ding-dong like a horror movie, and I thought I was hearing things until Lua said: “Doorbell?” And then someone started to bang on our front door and trip our motion sensor lights around the house. Suffice to say, we are all safe. The bees have been evicted, the girls have done a course of antibiotics (it was Strep), and would-be intruders have left the premises. But for a minute, my nerves were pretty shredded.

More broadly, the thing that terrifies me about back-to-school isn’t the transition or the inevitable viruses, it’s the fucking guns. It’s rare for me to get through a morning of drop-off without thinking about it. And after what happened in Minneapolis on the heels of the aforementioned Challenging Week, I was having an awful time leaving the girls at school.

I don’t have a tidy takeaway for this. I do all the things that Moms Demand Action and Everytown tell me to (writing lawmakers, etc.), and donate when I can. But this fear makes me feel intensely powerless as a parent. I’m okay with not being able to protect my kids from the regular stuff: Strep throat, bee stings, etc. But guns make me dizzy on a regular basis. A helpful person (also known as a therapist) told me I sort of have to suspend my disbelief the same way I do every time I get in the car, despite an awareness of commonplace traffic accidents. I’m somewhat willing to do this (I mean, I have to leave my kids at school), but also fucking furious that our country demands this of parents and kids for no good reason. I think the guys who wrote the Second Amendment would probably reconsider it if they knew that school shootings were an epidemic, and guns were the leading cause of death for kids in the US.

But I digress. By the second half of the Strep/Beehive/Intruder week of solo parenting, I was depleted, but also keyed up. It felt scarily reminiscent of the sort of hyper-vigilance that can occur when you’re caring for an infant while sleep-deprived. No bueno.

After the girls had been on antibiotics for a couple days, we went down to the beach on Saturday morning. The waves were perfect little peelers. A surf buddy/family friend emerged from the water with his longboard while the girls and I played in the shore-break.

“Wanna get one?” he asked. Oh man, I said. I do, but I can’t—I gestured to the girls. He could stay with them, he said, indicating the raft-up of parents and kids on blankets and chairs nearby. “Just get one wave and come back in.” I didn’t need convincing.

I don’t know that paddling out has ever felt this good. The board, which is a full foot-and-a-half longer than my own, was smooth and fast, and for once this summer, the waves were pretty tiny. A small, silvery one rolled toward me as I continued to paddle toward the horizon. I ducked my head, and the cool relief of the water rinsed over my scalp and shoulders and down to my toes. I was probably only in the water for about four minutes and barely got a wave, but it was one of the most spiritually effective surf sessions of my life. (Then, the girls had a tandem meltdown when we got home.) The next morning I got a babysitter and stayed in the water for two more hours.

That was a couple of weeks ago, and I honestly only just recently started to feel like my jagged edges are smoothing out. The Strep and bees were manageable. I think it was the sleep deprivation, isolation of sick kids, and brief terror of a midnight visitor that required a bit more recovery.

Corey had to leave town again this past weekend. But this time, we did great. We were buoyed by the residual effects of antibiotics and ample playdates—including one with a pool—and did our best to take it easy. We spent a lot of time at our local library and playground, where Lua mastered the monkey bars: a win that was sheer joy to witness. A friend who was also solo-parenting Saturday night brought her kids over for a hybrid dinner of delivered pizza and market veggies (plus Goodles for Nelle). Afterwards, we put three kids in the tub with popsicles.

Reader, do not snooze on the Tub Popsicle. I’ve gone on record as an enthusiastic proponent of the Shower Beer, and this is basically that, for kids. Plus, an effective bribing tool for those who don’t wish to bathe. For a little while on Saturday night, three small girls were living their best lives devouring rainbow popsicles in my tub, dripping and subsequently rinsing the sweet stickiness from their arms. But the real balm was doing this in tandem with a pal. Everything just feels lighter this way.

Anyway, Corey is home now and order is briefly, relatively restored. I’ve been managing my September Scaries by taking Instagram off my phone, and listening to things other than NPR (though I continue to support it monthly!). Recently that’s been fellow Second Summer proponent Foster Kamer’s radio show Summer Fridays on Soundcloud.

That’s all for now my friends. Take it easy, and have a good day!

Love,

Jenni

PS

Illustration by Diego Mallo for The New Yorker

I also found myself unexpectedly soothed by the voice of Anna Wintour in this conversation with David Remnick. There was an absolute absence of shockers, scoops, or unexpected opinions in this jovial conversation between Vogue’s outgoing EIC and the New Yorker’s current one. Rather, listening to these two stalwart statesmen of old print media provided sheer comfort. I found myself picturing them chatting at the old Condé Nast building overlooking Bryant Park, rather than down at One World Trade. I was temporarily transported to a New York (and planet) of bygone Septembers. Anyway, it was nice. And fun fact: at age 13 Anna wrote on a form (on her dad’s advice?) that she aspired to be editor-in-chief of Vogue. Dream big!