This was previously published August 2017
You may think I am over reacting when I say that I hate summer break. Go ahead, judge away, you little judgey judgerton. I don’t give a flying phooey on your opinion to this matter at all. Summer is hard for me. It’s a lot of fucking work and I am struggling like a cow in a muddy slough over here.
I recently posted this on Facebook…
“I’m having a great summer. The kids aren’t fighting. We’ve had lots of quality time. They don’t even ask to watch tv. They haven’t asked for play dates 9x a day. I haven’t yelled once. They love me putting sunscreen on them. They never want ice cream, just cucumbers. When I ask them to wear a hat, they do. They love the hot days. They love the crafts I’ve planned. No one has said “I’m bored”.
I said it.
And I’m going to keep saying it until it comes true. Please, sweet baby Jesus, make it come true.”
When I wrote this post, I was waiting for an asshole Mom or Grandma to jump on the post and tell me that I should enjoy this time while I can because soon my kids will be all grown up. No one did, but if they had I would have just smiled politely and not told them to eat shit and die like I would really want to.
But, I get it.
I get the point that summer is awesome and fun and carefree and other bullcrap.
I’m not stupid, in 10 years I fully intend to look back at summer as all pancakes and water fights and lemon meringue pie, but for now, it sucks. It’s exhausting as trying to shave the back of your upper thighs.
Which reminds me to tell you to check out the back of my thighs the next time you see me at the beach, because I am not shaving the back of my quads ever the fuck again.
Summer should be easy. I should be able to give my angels a freezie and push them out the door and not hear from them again for 2 hours.
Hell, I would settle on 13 minutes.
If I hear, “Mom, I’m bored.” ” She kicked me. “I don’t want to go to the beach!” “I hate this spray park.” “Can we watch t.v?” one more damn time I am going to melt all their lego in the oven.
All. Of. It.
One big giant blob of plastic on a cookie sheet. (of course, I will use a cookie sheet, I’m the one that cleans the stupid oven, why the hell would I make my life even more unbearable?!)
I wish they would get that all of summer is fun. Not just the playdates, the drives for ice cream, the organized beach trips, the festivals, the amusement parks and the family vacations that I have to plan. I am so sick of being their cruise director.
Of course, there have been some amazing moments. I don’t want to stab myself every moment of every day, but it is wearing me down like my molars eating Werthers.
Sure, one could say that I quite possibly created all this.
I made them unable to put their own popsicle stick in the garbage can.
I made them unable to entertain themselves with my endless ideas of making them better people by taking them to story times, climbing walls, parks, beaches, live music, outdoor festivals and yadayadayada.
I made them unable to find their own clean pair of socks.
Blame it all on me.
I’m fine with it.
I’ve been blaming myself for stuff since the day I was born. I ‘m used to it. I can carry the weight.
I can also carry the weight of this bag filled with fucking sand toys, sun hats, sunscreen, bug spray, water bottles, snacks, extra clothes, and towels.
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