I remember hearing the phrase in grad school, a liminal space, a place of transition, a place wholly in between. I loved it, having a name for the inevitable messy middle where you are trying to sort things out. To be honest, I have a fondness for liminal spaces too, for airports and train stations and almost beginnings or not quite endings. Maybe it’s because I hate letting go of things, but liminal spaces feel like the past is maybe still possible and the future is still fresh.

September is the liminal space of my year.

It’s that almost-fall-but-yet-still-summer of the Mid-Atlantic. We have had days that soar into the 90s, yet mornings where I step outside for my walk and the air is almost chilly. The days are still long and bright but every morning it is a little darker when I wake up. The pools closed, but the other night we grabbed takeout at the park with friends and the splash pad was still on. It’s almost fall, but still summer.

They still like the playground for the moment. Maddie still begs to go on the swings and Etta wants to hit the slides, but Henry often brings his own agenda. It feels like the end of something that I didn’t even know was a thing, this era where I just announced a playground and everyone went happily. I had swimsuits in my bag and the girls just stripped on the spot to change into them and they are definitely getting too old to do that. All three of them are in the same school this fall, three lunch boxes lined up and three backpacks by the door. Maddie is the first of our kids to do preschool, but those thirdborns will not be left behind, so they trek out the door together, little kids with big backpacks. Old enough to learn and grow and be away but still young enough to not hesitate to shuck off clothes by a fountain and change into a swimsuit. They are almost aware, but still innocent.

We took the crib apart around Labor Day and this means that this September for the first time since summer 2016, everyone goes to bed in a bed. The girls are in bunks and their room is a constant mess of dolls and plastic food, Henry’s across the hall strewn with Legos. I’ve never had to pack up the crib before. It’s always just trundled to a different room, a different baby, different sleepless nights and slow mornings. Now it’s disassembled against the wall in the study, obsolete. But I can’t bring myself to get rid of all the baby things yet. It’s almost time, but still I wonder.

Sometimes it surprises me when I try to pick them up. They are heavy and solid and big. They still all want me to cuddle at night, and I make the rounds from bed to bed, really wanting to finally be off the clock and also acutely aware that this is finite. I am still their person. But every year, more people become some of their people too. I took the first day of school photos after Labor Day and they look ginormous- these confident, happy kids. But I’ll take another picture in June and I know that their September selves will look so small. They are almost their own people, but still every bit mine.

I think it’s supposed to turn cooler this weekend, gusts of wind blowing us ever slowly out of the liminal space of September. It’s almost over, but not quite.