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Another season of frivolity just about over. The gravitas of September looms. As does the throat virus I always get this time of year, but that's another story.

I have a love/hate thing with September that I know a lot of people can relate to. September heralds the spirit of "new" much more than, say, January. Along with the formal construct (read: first day of school), the earth jolts rather abruptly towards autumn as Labor Day approaches.

Gone are the 10 pm dusks, the blazing hot blue-sky mornings, the yearning for air-conditioned matinees.

The alarm goes off at five-something and my husband returns to the classroom, his head bowed in resignation. My son wipes the disappointment from his eyes upon waking, crams half-done homework into his backpack and slinks off into the gloaming.

And as for me, my kingdom restored, I have to admit, I get out the Pepsi.

As much as I love having my family nestled be-next to me, I celebrate the perennial season of hermitic return. Hours of uninterrupted silence (but for the two or three conference calls that worm their way into my day). The potential for deep engagement at the top of each blessed hour. The freedom to pop out for a walk up the hill to compost some thoughts. The array of projects from which to choose without the imposition of lawn watering.

But, somewhere between two and three in the afternoon, so absorbed in my disparate voices, and failed sentences, I have to admit: I crack. This is when I start biting off my arm and it usually takes the form of jumping back into the world with some ridiculous grand gesture. Perhaps a five course meal for which I must fetch ingredients! A trip to the paint store for living room makeover inspiration! Online bulb catalogs! A new workout regime!

September. A new year: new resolutions. The digging, the diving, the hope. What does September mean to you?