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#5
Those little make-your-own popsicle plastic handles should each have a tracking device.
I was all pumped about our koolaid popsicles. EVERYBODY remembers the nostalgia of this wholesome summer activity... pouring the sugary yumminess into the molds, awaiting their full freeze, the sense of accomplishment at licking one’s one homegrown icepop. But the lickers of said popsicles walk. Like around. Outside, to their rooms, to the neighbors’... We first made a six-sicle batch, the quantity it was designed to make. Next: a four-sicle batch. Now I have two handles. And that includes the one gnarled by the disposal once (ok twice). I APOLOGIZE TO ANYONE IN A 5 MILE RADIUS IF YOUR LAWN MOWER BLADE TAKES A BEATING; I cannot be responsible for the whereabouts of the 4 missing ones.
#4
When I wish upon stars all year long that one of my kids will become a Top Chef so I can be spared the orchestration of a meal or two per week, I am STUPID.
One of them DID pick up an interest in the kitchen this summer. And turns out “leave the kitchen as you found it” means NOTHING to a tween boy. I can’t find my honey. I have no idea where our oatmeal is. The 8X8 baking dish has had at least 12 homes in as many days. He tries, dear child, but fails, to return things where they belong, much less use a sponge properly (I didn’t think you’d have to teach WRINGING. IT. OUT!!). Next summer I’m investigating not kid cooking classes for him, rather cooking clean-up classes. I’ll pay anything. Bet he’ll be biting at the bit.
#3
I can’t kid myself that I am fully severed from my children’s bathroom management.
With Campbell’s potty training successfully mastered between last summer and this one, I was so elated to become richer and saner. No diapers! No changing poos!
But EVEN THE OLDER ONES shimmy and shake around in their shorts, their pjs bottoms, their swim trunks trying to add one more second to the activity of avoiding relieving themselves. They dig squirmily down into the surface upon which they sit like a drill, determined to have it stay up there as long as possible. Seriously?! When will this end? When will I stop having to declare: “GO TO THE BATHROOM, YOU ARE DAMAGING YOUR BLADDER!!” I’m going to start threatening to put them BACK in diapers. That’ll do the trick.
#2
When you spend thousands of dollars on a treehouse and then allow a hornet nest perched upon it to grow to exponential proportions, nobody uses said treehouse.
By my calculations, this summer we are providing an estimated 700 bucks per month in rent free living for our hundreds of little tenants.
And our kids stay grounded.
So basically, we paid all that money for a science exhibit.
#1
No two summers are the same.
Last summer was the bomb!!! It felt like a break! All light and fluffy and not-perfect-but-easier-in-so-many-ways. I honestly thought this one was gonna be even more of a freakin blast. Kids older. More independent. More fun. More simple to take places and do things.
More self-entertaining.
But while some of this was true, new things popped up (tween moodiness, demanding preschooler who gave up naps, major space cadet tendencies in another, rivalry between siblings putting a competitive edge on my attention, later bed times WHILE STILL GETTING UP AT SAME TIME meaning less adult quiet time...). Basically there just isn’t enough me.
And the scrawny little leftovers of me aren’t even enough for me.
You were expecting humor, a grand slam #1 to laugh your way off the internet.
Sorry folks, sometimes it just is what it is.
My hope is that if you are having a fantastic summer, you will read this and spend a moment in empathy with the mammas and papas who are eagerly ripping pages off of count down calendars. Moreso, my hope is to encourage the sisterhood who fall in my pathetic little boat, the ones who are barely hanging on, who are salivating over the stack of novels they never pick up, the ones who watch a movie about a woman gone mad, quarantined to a padded space in the manor, and think, “at least she’s got her own room,” the ones who crave alcohol at 11am. Power in numbers, girls. You’re not alone. You got this. And it’s ok to not be having the time of your life this Summer. It is. Remember: No two are alike, so there’s always next year!!!!!!!!!! (Do the exclamation marks translate my desperation?) Claim Summer 2018 is shitty. Own it. And then eat one of two popsicles in your freezer.
Preferably, with a bonus ingredient the 11-yr-old chef in the House didn’t think of: VODKA.
Of course, after 11am.
Hell, before even.