This was the summer Michaela began leaving discarded items in our bedroom—furtively, like the small mammal she is. These were things that she claimed—though I don't think she used precisely these words—to have outgrown. I would come into the bedroom and find neatly arranged objects on our bed including a Beauty and the Beast print from a pre-pandemic trip to Disney World; a patchwork pillow with the letter M stitched on it that she'd made in her first sewing class; a rainbow abacus that we bought from Ikea when she was a toddler which was never once used for calculation.

I set aside the items for donation, though once or twice I asked her are you sure and she would nod sympathetically like she knew how painful it was for me to actually get rid of this stuff. I am a diligent archivist: preserving her art and saving all of her handwritten stories or schoolwork and even going so far as to retrieve diary pages from her trash bin that she'd thrown out because their juvenile tone or inexpert handwriting embarrassed her; maybe one day she'll be grateful. I even kept the cluster of trinkets that she'd chained to the zipper of her old backpack.

I recently put on a dress and realized that I got it before having Michaela. She is now ten, so that dress is over a decade old. My wardrobe now falls into two categories: pre and post-M. Few pre-M items still fit me. I guess we all outgrow stuff, so why should I be sad or mournful about the stuff she's leaving behind? Because one day I'll be included in that group. She's growing up (the notches we use to keep track of her height on the kitchen wall reveal that she's grown several inches since last summer) but she's also growing away—stretching to the light like the branches of the poplar I planted three years ago which suddenly, seemingly out of the blue, transitioned from sapling to tree this summer.

In the car on our way to the East Coast this summer we listened to The Hobbit and I was shocked to learn that Bilbo Baggins and I are the same age. A half-century old. So that whole book is a metaphor for midlife? Then what does Smaug represent? Unfulfilled ambition?

Here are a few random scenes from our summer.

It feels good to be back; I've missed you! Please let me know how you are, how your summer was, or is. Michaela started school on Wednesday and it feels good to have some more time during the day to do stuff or just cuddle with Rosie.

No recommendations this week—I really needed to just get this off. I'll have some for you next week!

Til then, sending love.

Claire