Summer Twos

Spending the summer in a bungalow colony year after year has led me to coin a new term: Summer Twos. Combining the concept of summer blues and the terrible twos, those of us privileged enough to live in ramshackle huts situated in an oasis of greenish mud with (at least) one child under the age of three have a special understanding of the term.

Summer Twos is that feeling of dread that envelops a woman’s heart when she hasn’t seen her two-year-old for four minutes. It’s the way her brain turns to mush while her lips yell, “Have you seen him?” to anyone within hearing distance.

This part of Summer Twos comes with its own checklist. Check the pool. Behind Fried’s bungalow. By the tall grass where the deer was spotted last week. Near the tree that a bear climbed last year. As the items get crossed off, the danger of Summer Twos both decreases and increases, because, where is he?

And then there’s the all-clear signal that sounds like a siren wailing, “I found him!” followed by sticky ices-covered kisses and admonishments onto deaf ears to “tell Mommy where you’re going next time!”