"God. When I was your age, I flipped burgers all summer just
to buy an eight-track." ~ American Beauty
Tick tock.
The time is winding down, and the clock is about ready to strike, bringing us to the majority of working moms' most stressful time of year...
Summer Vacation.
Throughout the years my anxiety levels have run the gamut, morphing into their own special concerns as my kids have gotten older.
When they were really small, like babies, the only time I ever had summers off was if I managed to coincide them with a maternity leave. Funny, four kids age 7 and under never left me as relaxed as I had thought. I usually had one on the boob, one on a hip, and two more dancing around me, teasingly out of reach. Never was I able to sit pool side, sipping a margarita while all four would miraculously nap at the same time. Nope, the closest I ever got to leisurely pool activities is the one time when I jumped in - fully clothed in jeans and a t-shirt - because two year old Chloe drove her scooter straight into the deep end of the pool. That was fun.
Then when I stopped having babies, summer vacations consisted of paying obscene amounts of daycare costs for three months.
Eventually the years passed and the kids were allowed to spend limited amounts of their summer vacation at home during the day. I'd come home to the central air on full blast, windows wide open and 17 cereal bowls in various stages of destruction on the counter top. When school would return in September, I'd practically weep with relief and offer freezy-pop sacrifices in the back yard.
Now they're older, and if I can get them to look up from their XBox, iPad, laptops and cell phones long enough to make eye contact with me, I'll consider it a miracle. Seriously, I told them they're going to have to get exposure to the sun this summer or they'll all come down with rickets if they don't get enough Vitamin D. I'll probably pull into the driveway after work some day in August and find them all bow-legged in the front yard, pointing at the sun and asking each other "What is that strange glowing orb in the sky? We have not seen it in many, many moons."
Now to be fair, it's not that the school year doesn't have its share of stresses either.
Just a few weeks ago I was taking a week long insurance class. During a break, I checked my voicemail. My first message was from my son's third grade teacher. As soon as I heard her voice, my stomach dropped.
Please don't let it be lice, please don't let it be lice...
"Hi Vanessa, could you call me please? It's about Wyatt..."
My initial fear immediately morphed into teeth clenching frustration. Good lord, if she tells me again that little turd didn't turn in his math homework, I am going to chuck his Xbox out of the window.
Her message continued. "There was an incident during Show & Tell. One of the kids brought in a pet pig and it, uh, bit Wyatt in the leg."
I immediately called her back because I was still a little confused. Who, or what bit him? And did he bite back? Who was more traumatized, Wyatt or the pig?
Now I love my kids' teachers. I have been seriously blessed with having these incredible role models teach and lead my children. I couldn't ask for better ones. So I could tell right away that his teacher felt horrible. As soon as she got on the phone she assured me my son was doing just fine, the bite didn't break the skin, and he was getting lots of TLC from the staff at the school.
"And just so you know," she told me. "The pig is totally healthy and has had all its shots."
I paused.
To be honest, I wasn't even sure my kids were all up to date on their shots.
In all reality, the pig-biting incident will fade from my son's memory all too fast. Unless he's anything like his mother - and then he'll whip that gem out during a house party in college.
"Seriously dudes, one time I was ambushed by a wild boar in the wilderness. I fought it with my bare hands and fed my family pork chops and bacon for weeks. Nah...just kiddin'. I got bit by one during Show & Tell during 3rd grade." The girls at the party will think he's hilarious and every one's a winner.
So just as my kids are counting down the last remaining days of their school year, I'm making lists in my head during the day.
Daily Chores for Each Child
Time Allowed on Electronics
Charts and Expectations for Earning Money
Now that my two older girls are 14 and 16, I am hounding them almost daily. "Get a job, I am not kidding. You should be pounding the pavement and offering your babysitting services if nothing else. Do you know what I did for my first job? I got up at 4:30 every morning - "
"And milked cows at your grandparents farm, just so you could earn enough money to buy Guess jeans for the school year," they'll say in unison, rolling their eyes at my obviously oft-repeated speech.
"Well, it's true," I tell them. "I put up with manure all over me, just so I could earn my own money. We lived in the country, so I took whatever options were available. Now you kids live in town. Live in town, do you hear me? Your possibilities are endless."
And to be fair, my two older girls are lining up gigs in which they'll be paid. I'm proud of them. I know it's not easy to be one of my kids... in full disclosure they may very well be agreeing to summer jobs just to avoid my incessant meddling. Oh well. They can like me when they're adults, right? We can all go on a vacation together, and we'll be sitting poolside sipping margaritas (finally!) and we'll chuckle and laugh and they'll say, "Hey Mom...remember when you used to lose your shit and go nuts every June through September? And you'd rant and rave about us not making our beds, and spending too much time on our lap tops? And you'd embarrass us in front of our friends and hiss, 'Quit feeding every freakin' kid in this neighborhood during the day! Jesus Christ, I'm not made of money!' Remember when you would do that?"
And I'll smile and nod, and probably pop a well-needed Valium.
Ahhh, summer vacation....
The good ol' days.
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