In retrospect, not packing my summer schedule with scheduled activities was my stupidest idea ever.
Not having scheduled activities means that I've had to come up with new ideas every fifteen minutes.
NEWSFLASH: I'm out of ideas.
Worse, I feel like strangling anyone who throws fun, educational ideas at me. No, I do NOT want to make a homemade slingshot using only Q-tips and peanut butter. No, I do NOT want to spend more time at the local library. No, I do NOT want to pack a picnic for a lovely afternoon at the park. WE HAVE DONE ALL THAT LIKE 18 MILLION TIMES!
All I want is to send these children back to school. Where they belong.
And I want to send myself to solitary confinement.
[I can't wait to see the flood of unsubscribe emails that come after I publish this post!]
Well, since school is still a month away, I've resorted to sending them off to do hard manual labor. The kids come ask me what they should do and I'm all: GO EMPTY THE DISHWASHER! SWEEP THE FLOOR! MEND MY SOCKS!
My goal is to make them so sick of summer vacation that they'll start pining for Ye Old School Days of Yore.
I've even considered buying a little whistle that I can use a la Captain Von Trapp to summon everyone. From now on, I'm parking myself on the couch and blowing on my whistle to boss everyone around.
Look, I don't know what I was expecting but this summer has been anything but a vacation for me. There's no sleeping in. There's no lazy, breezy summer afternoons.
My days still start with a bang at 5:45 am. I'm up cooking and cleaning and chasing naked toddlers before most people open their eyeballs. You know you're a mom of 8 million kids when starting lunch prep at 8:15 a.m. sounds perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, starting my day so early means I'm a raving lunatic by 2pm.
My long-suffering sherpa/husband calls 2pm-5pm The Red-Zone. He has proof, too. The text messages I send him from 2pm-5pm read something like this: AAAUUUGH!! I'M DYING!!! I HATE EVERYTHING!! HELP! HELP!
Frankly, I don't know why people talk about solitary confinement like it's a punishment thing. That sounds like a vacation to me.
I got so desperate the other day that I hauled everyone out for 8:30 a.m. Mass. They were like: "Why are we going to church on a weekday?"
And I was all: BECAUSE IF MOMMY DOESN'T PRAY, THE WORLD IS GOING TO END!
They all behaved so well that afterwards I felt all apologetic and took everyone out for (overpriced) bagels. James was like: "Well, I guess since we just spent half an hour praying we don't even need to thank the Lord for our food."
Yes, friends. I'm doing a bang-up job of passing the faith on to the next generation.