And, suddenly, for a week, until summer camp started, the newly ex-Kindergartner and I were face to face over our morning pancakes, not an elementary school deadline in sight. “Let’s go to the beach!” he suggested. We did. “Museums!” We went there, too. “Waterpark!” Well, almost, but Hurricane Harbor had such bad reviews on Yelp (Hurricane Horror, Septic River…) I decided against it. We rode the ferry to Balboa Island instead–which is definitely not the same as shooting down a water slide, but surprisingly thrilling all the same. I was reminded of the years before my son started elementary school–the many outings we had–me slyly educating him on marine taxonomy at the beaches (“That’s an invertebrate, Mama!”—mwahaha!), me with him in my lap, wrapped in my arms, both of us watching the ocean change color (“Magenta, Mama!”—mwahaha!), me educating him on orchid varieties in the botanical gardens–and quickly realizing I know nothing about orchids, except that they’re pretty. This time, though, for a week, my son educated me, outing to outing—on the soaring capabilities of the Draco lizard, that dinosaurs are all around us because they’re birds, that he is perfectly capable of walking over to the surf from the towel I’ve placed on the sand BY HIMSELF and frolicking in the very-very-extremely-shallows BY HIMSELF without drowning or getting carried out to sea by a riptide or great white shark. For the week, we reconnected in a way I will always make time for in the future, when First Grade starts up and all that’s coming out of my mouth are nagging reminders. I’ll surprise him with dinner at the beach. Or we’ll do homework in a park with an accompanying picnic. Mix it up. Before it’s suddenly some unfathomable year and he is driving off into the sunset where colleges   live.