It’s that time of year again…
Back to school.
There are two types of moms on the first day of school. Wait, no, three:
1) The ones who get out of the car and kiss the ground of the drop off line then burn rubber peeling out of there while blasting “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang on their way to Publix where they won’t have to stop and get anyone a free cookie.
2) The ones who cry a single tear for each day they didn’t have to set an alarm into their strong morning coffee while counting the days until Christmas break.
3) The ones who say screw this shit. I’m just gonna homeschool.
Well, being that I am not bat shit crazy and number three would be grounds for me being Baker Acted, I fall firmly into category number two. (And before you light me up for calling homeschool moms bat shit, chill. Homeschooling would make ME bat shit. There are times I REALLY wish I had it in me. I know my limits, people…I don’t).
For the record, I unequivocally L-O-V-E summer vacation.
Actually it’s kinda surprising considering how many years I shaved off my life this summer with these two Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling going at it all day, er’day.
But I do. I love it anyway.
The powers that be really try to make me WANT to send them back to school, though.
For one thing, I know why there exist no summer camps in session the last couple weeks of summer. They close all the camps because they want you to keep your kids at home FULL-TIME for two weeks so you’re damn good and ready to send them back on the first day.
Solid effort. Still no.
You know what does almost get me, though? The summer homework.
But ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hold me down. Oh no. Not even summer homework.
No matter how hard they try, there is no making me look forward to the start of another school year.
When I first see that list of school supplies, my eyelid starts to twitch. When I have to go actually purchase the school supplies, I need a couple shots of Fireball to give me the liquid courage to face the lists. (For my forty-ish readers who aren’t familiar, Fireball is the modern day version of Goldschlagger minus the tiny flecks of real gold and your youth).
I’ll spare you the drama over the supply lists except to say, a heads up on the maxi-pads would have been nice before I handed the list to my 11 year old. She ran down the list and loudly asked “what ARE maxi-pads, Mom? Where do I find those?”
Record stop on aisle nine.
Lawd, good thing I didn’t send Big Daddy with that list. It may have sent him into the fetal position waving a white flag in the beer aisle.
That wasn’t a discussion even I was prepared to have. Especially while under the duress of school supply shopping in the middle of an angry mob of parents in the Target aisles freaking the eff out over the price of pre-sharpened Ticonderoga pencils.
Anyway. First it’s the supply shopping. Then it’s the uniform ordering. And before I know it I’m blubbering to my own mom via text about the fact that another summer is over and I only have six more summers with my big girl before she leaves me forever.
To that, my mom said, “you could always have another baby…”
Talk about a record stop.
I responded with: “whoa there, Nelly. I said I’m sad…not CRAZY,” and got my shit together real quick ’cause ain’t nobody around here tryin’ to birth a baby at the ripe old age of 41. My round ligaments (and other lady parts) couldn’t take it. That ship has sailed.
But it all just goes too fast.
All summer I feel like time is slipping through my fingers like beach sand (dry beach sand…not the wet clumpy beach sand I’m cleaning out of bathing suit crotch lining all summer).
Every summer. Every year. Every phase. Just too fast.
I want to hold on tight to long summer days with a house full of kids. (No really. I do. Why are you laughing?)
Even when my I find myself buying glue and Borax by the bucket only to find slime remnants stuck all over my carpets which threatens to make my head explode.
Even when I’m spraying sunscreen for the one millionth time on a kid who is screaming about it burning her cheeks like it’s Napalm.
Even when I’m driving all over town and emptying my bank account for summer camps that are over before I even have time to finish my grocery shopping.
Even when it’s hotter than the surface of the sun and I’m breaking a sweat separating my kids from a fight over a fidget spinner.
Even when they are singing along to the Descendants soundtrack so loudly I think the high pitch of Kristin Chenoweth’s voice is going to give me a full blown aneurysm.
Even then. I still love summer. And every year I mourn when it’s over.
I grieve as I say goodbye to another season of sleeping in, vacations, adventures with friends, family time, and–arguably the best part–virtually NO obligations.
Year after year, it really gives me the sads.
And when I’m already down, to add insult to injury, I get kicked in the gut with the unthinkable: lunch packing. That’s enough to make me stick a protractor in my eye. Enough said. I know y’all feel me.
So, once again, as much as I hate it, I must send them back to school to the precious teachers who get the best of them every day and return them to me at 2:50 like rabid raccoons on crack, God love ’em.
I’m gonna try to look at the bright side, though: Gator football and hunting season are almost here to cushion the blow.
RIP summer of 2017.