Rob left yesterday for his third tour in Washington DC and I
am determined to make this summer alone at home with the kids the best ever.
I’ve calendared play dates and sleepovers and train rides and zoo outings and
story times. It is only day two and already I’m busting my hump with crafts and
lemonade and building forts and homemade play dough. And in between I’m attempting to turn my
little sideline freelance business into a livelihood.
Enter here the children, those ungrateful little nitwits,
who make Veruca Salt look like a saint. These are children who aren’t afraid to
injure one another over the last yogurt with the rabbit cartoon on it. They scoop
Nutella from the jar with their fingers and then, after using shirts as napkins, criticize and reject the nutritious meal I’ve laboriously prepared for
them. Their bodies go limp with injustice when I ask them to put on clothes or
even, heaven forbid, brush their teeth. They are constantly touching one
another and then screaming for me to make it stop. They are perfectly content
to watch TV wearing only a cape and underwear for 18-hours a day.
But wait, this was going to be the best summer ever! Just
the four of us, spending fun-filled days together in the neighborhood pool,
going on lovely excursions to parks and the beach. We were supposed
to be bonding and laughing and playing and exploring and having fun with each
other. I’m not supposed to be screaming at them every five minutes that if they
don’t stop hurting and teasing each other, then there are going to be serious consequences!
No,
apparently, this summer is about delivering everything the kids want exactly
when the little darlings want it, even though their behavior doesn’t warrant a
reward. And I’m exhausted. I
have completely stopped caring who started it, or who grabbed who, or who had the
remote control first. I really just don’t give a crap. All I want is for the
whining and the crying and the tattling to stop.
So my summer of love has not started off as
the love fest that I thought it would be. These are good lessons, though. I’m
learning to roar and may end up going full-out tiger mom on my kids. And I’m definitely
going to be seeking out schools with a year-round schedule.
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