Reading · Five More Minutes

This letter finds you two weeks after it was written. Let’s pretend that’s because it had to travel a great distances to find you. Okay? Cute. Cool. Summer is, uhm, summer-ing. You know?

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Hi, Hello, How are you?

We are three weeks into summer break. That means three weeks of unstructured days and a lot of together time. Me, and the three kids.

We’ve fallen into a loose rhythm. Our mornings are slow. Coffee drinking, a meandering breakfast, frozen waffles growing cold as I repeat, “Breakfast is ready!” Around 10 a.m., we venture out for a playdate or an errand. Later, while E naps, the girls play in the yard or the playroom. H mixes together some concoction of miscellaneous ingredients: sand, spices, a scoop of tahini she sneaks from the fridge while I’m turned away. I respond to intermittent calls for help (R can’t fit a bead on a string, H climbed too high and can’t get down) while I do chores, prep dinner, read a book, try to write, or stare at my phone for too long and quickly regret it. In the afternoon, we shove an XL tote bag with goggles, floaties, and a drawstring pouch filled with half-full sunscreen bottles and sprays. We pile into the car and are predictably fifteen minutes late to R’s swim team practice. H has swim lessons, and E floats around with me. Our pool routine pulls me out of the afternoon slump. The answer, I think, to summer burnout is finding ways to be outside despite the unbearable heat. The water and sun charge me and calm me down in equal measure.

At 5:30-ish, it’s time to go home, and I struggle to get everyone out of the pool. I give ten and five minute warnings. When the timer dings, I call, “Time to go,” and then, “Guys, it’s time to get out,” and then, “Let’s go home and make dinner.” All the parenting advice that says, “Don’t repeat yourself,” crowds in my mind while I sweat at the edge of the pool. Eventually, I peel off my cover-up and hop back into the water to collect a straggler. There’s always one. Often two. We drive home chlorine-soaked and tired. Some days, my husband is home when we arrive for dinner and bedtime. We are happy to see him, especially me.

In the first two weeks of summer break, I found myself eager and able to sink into this rhythm. We had visitors. We took an impromptu trip to my hometown. There were lots of sweet moments: eating ice cream on the curb with cousins and reapplying sunscreen while we waited for the zoo train. But in the last few days (with news that changed our summer plans and the trajectory of a long-term house repair project), I’ve felt a sleepiness descend. I wonder if anyone has ever written compellingly about being tired. Even the lyrics to “I’m So Tired” by the Beatles are pretty boring (can I say that?)

The persistent sleepiness came on last Saturday. J and I had the babysitter scheduled from 5 p.m. to 10 p.m. for a date night, and by the time she arrived, I was so wiped I couldn’t imagine putting on an outfit and going out. A big part of me wanted to cancel, but instead I decided not to put on an outfit and to just go. I stayed in the drawstring shorts I’d been wearing since 7 a.m.—sweating, scooping up a toddler, sitting in the grass watching the kids swing. I quickly swapped a stained T-shirt for a cotton blouse, splashed my face with water, brushed back the wispy hairs framing my face, and within minutes, I was ready and we left. I didn’t look cute, but I was out of the house. And once we were out, I felt complete permission (in the little greenhouse restaurant with a sweating carafe of water between us) to be tired. To lean back in my chair and intermittently say something inconsequential to J. “Sometimes I feel too exhausted to function by 5 p.m.” “Lucky we got a table without a reservation.” “What was that sashimi dish with the green sauce from last time?” In the comfortable silences, I was reminded there is relief in embracing fatigue—not fighting through it and not indulging it either—wearing it like a heavy jacket, letting it slow me down.

In 2021, when the burnout discourse was peaking, I attended a talk at a teachers’ conference that was held mostly outdoors to minimize the spread of germs. The woman facilitating the talk sat at the head of a row of small metal picnic tables that we pushed together to make it a long one. She wore a striped cap sleeve top with small wooden buttons that pulled slightly at the chest when she sat. Her tight curls puffed up in the Texas humidity, and she pulled them back into a frizzy ponytail at the crown of her head. As she spoke, she pulled a number of bespoke wooden items out of a reusable grocery bag. She said that during the pandemic she’d started whittling wood. She said that carving wooden spoons on her front porch after her kids fell asleep downshifted her whole system. She said it was counterintuitive, but that the tedious nature of shaving wood, shard by shard, felt like one long exhale—the mechanics almost the antithesis of frenetically scrolling her phone. She showed us a lumpy, novice-looking wooden toad.

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I wanted to tell you that I fell butt-first into the foot bath at a pedicure appointment the other day🤣🤣🤣🤣. I’ve spontaneously laughed about it ever since. Worth every bit of public embarrassment. Recommend embarrassing yourself to bring the absurdity of all things into clearer view.

That’s all this week.

Oh, and zine coming soon!

Best, Stephanie

PS: Really thank you so much for reading! If you like these newsletters, I have three asks!

1) Please click into Substack and like this letter or essay. Even better, leave a comment. How’s summer going?

Slowing Down for Summer & Bespoke Wooden Spoons

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