Tomorrow is D-Day... the start of summer vacation for Max and Harlowe. Too young for any kind of summer camp, they'll be stuck with me and in turn, I with them. I'm sure there are Good Moms out there who already have a hefty roster of activities and mind developing crusades that will prepare Jack and Jill for an outstanding 2nd and 3rd grade. Not me. I got nothin'. No elaborate crafts involving gluing beans to paper plates; no educational field trips; no fun. Plus, my kids are like farmers, rising with the sun. This leaves me with far too many hours to fill. What to do.... what to do. All I really want to do is eat some fruit salad and wait until it's 5:00 somewhere (wink, wink).
And screw you Martha Stewart/Carol Brady crossbreeds. I call bullshit! I've seen the pictures of you in your Lands End one-piece, sipping sun-brewed iced tea while you and your crew of civic-minded brats clean up the local beach. Whatever. I'm not buying it. So what if I'm the mom who keeps her kids in the shallow end of the pool while I trade vodka recipes with the other moms who can't get wet for fear of melting Wicked Witch style.
I think it's time we quit perpetuating this myth. Summer with kids isn't all berry picking, frolicking in the surf and finger painting. In my world (i.e. The Real World), it's about begging your kids to go to sleep even though the sun is still burning outside; it's sweaty legs stuck to plastic chairs in suffocating heat; it's countless vacant hours of I'm Bored and Pasta, Again?; it's Hell.
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