points north.

on caregiving and being cared for in the summertime.

Summertime, oh summertime, pattern of life indelible, the fade proof lake, the woods unshatterable, the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever, summer without end…

- E.B. White, “Once More to the Lake”

My children leap from one treacherous rock to the next. They are fearless bordering on reckless and they have the scrapes and bruises and bandaid residue on summer skin to show for it. They love the flutter of their lurching stomachs. If there’s a slightly more perilous path, they’ll take it.

In New York City, where we live, they get their proprioceptive thrills from Brownstone stoops. On walks home from school they scamper up three stairs and launch themselves off, taking triple the number of steps that I do to walk the same distance and somehow finishing with more energy. They race their scooters around the block, high on freedom and near-misses with dog-walking neighbors. Their stomachs somersault with subway cars that don’t slow down even for the sharpest curves on the track. My kids hoist themselves over wrought-iron playground fences instead of taking the long way around. They climb door jambs and furniture. If they could, they’d scale the apartment walls.

For much of this summer they’ve traded stoops for stones. They’ve asked us to speed up on steep gravel roads and squealed with delight on the descent. When my youngest sees a hill in the distance she alerts her siblings and hopes her stomach drops. My kids purposefully flip kayaks and do backward flips into tea-colored pond water. Why walk down a trail when you can run down it? Tripping over roots and pinecones and skittering down slick pine needles doesn’t hamper their speed, it just adds to their pleasure.