I’m pretty
sure I write some version of this same post every year about this time. In June, I’m all “Summer is the best thing in
the world and it’s sooooo great to have my kids around all the time and I just
loooovvvee relaxing in our pj’s together every morning and not having to deal
with homework and carpool and All The School Things.”
And the next
thing I know, it’s August, and we all know what happens in August.
Mama reaches
the end of her rope.
I love my
children. I sooooo looooovvvee my children. I really truly promise I love my children.
I
just don’t love them quite as much in August.
You see,
when I say I’ve reached the end of my rope, I don’t mean I have a secure two-hand
hold with a few inches to spare people.
I’m hanging on by my fingernails to a very thin thread here. I’m so close to the end of the rope that when
I was prepping lemon chicken at 4:00 this afternoon for us to have for dinner,
I took a long hard look at the bottle of white wine I was using to make the
sauce before I put it back in the fridge.
A very long, very hard look, and those of you who know me well know I
don’t partake in a whole lot of wine. I
never partake at 4:00 on a Tuesday afternoon.
Today, however, I seriously considered it, because it’s August. My fingernails are killing me and I can’t
hold on much longer.
Just last
week, I was lamenting over the end of summer, wondering why we couldn’t just
have another few days to relax in the sun.
It was July then. Much closer to
June.
Today, all I can think is why in
the world does summer have to be so long?
We’ve done
the pool thing. A lot. We’ve done the vacation thing. It was awesome, but it was a long time ago. When we all still liked each other. We’ve had play dates and sleepovers and
mornings in our pj’s and far too much time watching movies and playing on the
Ipad and making forts in the basement.
We’ve stayed up too late and gone out to dinner too often and had
popsicles on the deck. We’ve eaten plenty of watermelon and played enough board
games and used up every ounce of sunscreen we own.
It’s.Time.For.School.To.Start.
I know this
because today, during lunch, my eleven and a half year-old (who has always liked
to follow rules and rarely done anything all that bad) threw a piece of
hard-boiled egg at his sister because she touched his Rubix cube.
Yep. You read that right. He THREW a piece of EGG at his SISTER.
Well heck
yea he did. I mean, come on. She
touched his Rubix cube. AND IT’S AUGUST!!!!!!!!
I actually
handled it outwardly better than my inward desires would have suggested. Inwardly, I saw an enormous food fight going
on in my kitchen. And I’m not talking
about a fun, banana cream pie in the face kinda food fight. I’m talking mama slinging all kinds of nasty
things right at ‘em. Inwardly, I wanted
to chuck a handful of minced garlic at his face.
Instead, I
mustered up the kindest mama voice I had in me, and I said, ever so sweetly, “Clearly
you have had just about enough of summer, and it’s time for you to return to
school where throwing egg at your sister is not an option. In the meantime, put on your golf clothes, because
I’m dropping you off at the driving range and I’m leaving you there until I
decide to come get you!”
And that’s
how I know it’s time for school to start. Because my son threw food at the
kitchen table, and I, the parent holding on by her fingernails, could come up
with only one way to handle it, and that way involved . . . a golf course?
Hopefully,
Charlie’s teachers will have had enough time away from kids to remember the
meaning of the word ‘consequence’, because I’m working so hard to cling to this
rope that I’ve lost my maternal edge. There’s no fight left in me, my friends. It’s August, and this mama is officially done
with summer.
Thankfully,
summer is over next Thursday. PRAISE
GOD FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW!
Until
then . . . there’s always that bottle of wine in the fridge. 
