Stop.

Take a breath.

Close your eyes.

May is almost over.

Everyone who knows me is aware that I don’t really. . ahem. . enjoy the month of May.  I complain, I whine, I expound upon the unbelievable amount of activities that are crammed into each day.  I even write poems to express how I feel about this particular month.  I wonder if my particular sign of the Zodiac (cancer) is not meant to align well with Taurus and Gemini. . .  

I’m a creature of habit.  Every year, when May rolls around, I profess to really, really be waiting for June.  Too many concerts, too many programs, too many rehearsals, teas, cookies, games, practices.  And this year, with all of this rain, it’s been so EASY to be mad at May.  

But I have a secret.  I kind of think I love all the stuff.  That’s right.  I’m out of the closet.  (She says in a whisper:  I might love May.)  It’s okay to be overwhelmed by the amount of stuff that goes on, but still love the stuff, right?  Because everyone who knows me is also quite aware that I love a good program, I cry not only at recitals but at rehearsals, and I’m a super-fan of my kids’ sports.  I love concerts, teas, and cookies. This May, I’ve enjoyed choir concerts, talent shows, baseball games, baking, planning, committees, you name it, I’ve enjoyed it.  So am I bashing May?  Or am I bashing the number of hours in a day?  If they could play baseball in February, they would, right?  (Oh wait. . . they do  

Yesterday was my daughter’s dress rehearsal for her eleventh dance recital.  I packed three bags of costumes, tights, shoes, and make-up.  To be clear, she gets most of her things ready, but then I spend some time making it “just right.”  This is all because she says one sentence to me each year.  “I love when you pack my make-up, Mommy.  You get it all right.”  Compliment or con-job?  It doesn’t matter.  I love doing it.   We practiced her hairstyles, double-checked labels and costume order, packed some snacks and prepared to spend quite a few hours together at the auditorium.  I love dress rehearsal day.  It was there, sitting in the auditorium (front row, center, of course) that I realized, “I don’t hate you, May.  In fact, tonight, I think I love you.”

This morning, there was a chipmunk swimming in our hot tub.  We never leave the cover off, but we did, since it’s broken and being replaced, so I’m feeling guilty and sad about this creature, quite out of his normal habitat, panicked and overtired. I rescued him with a dustpan, and he jumped off and into my garden.  I’m hopeful that he wasn’t swimming in the too-hot water for too long.  

I want to take a walk later, but first I will check in the garden in case the chipmunk is there.  Resting or dead, or even if I can’t see him, I just would like a visual “yes or no” to the chipmunk question.  Years ago, there was a chipmunk on our porch, and my son Jono, young at the time, named him “Hotdog.”   Now, every chipmunk my children see in the yard is Hotdog.  They remain convinced, or at least Sam does, that Hotdog returns, year after year.   

My first thought this morning was, “Are you kidding me?  A chipmunk in the hot tub?  Hotdog in the hot tub? This is a May morning at it’s finest!”   Then Sam and I pulled our rescue mission off, and Sam gave me a big, unexpected hug of thanks for saving the chipmunk, and I realized that it’s not about May.  It’s about what I do with May.  I need to stop being a creature of habit, and be a creature enjoying my habitat, rain or shine, busy or idle, at work or at play, saving my sanity or saving Hotdog.   Even (especially?) in May.  

So the errands will wait, the housecleaning will wait (maybe until June.)  I have a walk to take and a chipmunk to check on this beautiful May afternoon.  

Stop.  

Take a breath.

Close your eyes.

May is almost over.

I don’t want you to miss it.