Summertime . . . and the Livin’ Ain’t Easy Summer’s almost here and all across the Valley signs of the change of season are upon us: students stare longingly out of windows, teachers shift restlessly in chairs, mothers lunge desperately for wine openers. The last is a phenomenon that occurs this time of year when we over-taxed, multi-tasking mommies have The Realization. It’s that cold-sweat moment when we come to grips with the fact that “Kidmageddon” is just around the corner. This annual event has been benignly portrayed by the media for years as “Summertime” – the most relaxing, fun, kick-back season of them all. Beaches! Ice cream! Sleep-away camp! We moms aren’t fooled by this propaganda. We know- for every beach outing, there’s a jam-packed freeway to fight. For every ice cream cone, a car interior that ends up stickier than Lindsay Lohan’s fingers. And, for every summer camp, a seizure-inducing price tag. (Apparently, in Southern California, lanyard wire and tie-dye have a street value roughly equivalent to that of crude oil.) Of course we have a choice – spend more on a few weeks of Camp Cashcow than our parents did on our college educations, or let the kids rattle around the house for 2 ½ months. The latter is a terrific option if your idea of a good time is a daily concert featuring those great classic hits, “I’m Hungry,” “I’m Bored,” and everyone’s favorite, “There’s Nothing to Do Around Here.” I think this annual dilemma we moms face is a product of our own doing. It’s a result of our generation’s method of parenting. When I was growing up in the Midwest in the 70’s and 80’s my 5 brothers and my sister and I went to an amazing camp every summer. It was called “Our Neighborhood.” It began every morning when my mom opened the screen door, and ended at dusk when we showed up for dinner. The activities there included: kick ball on the cul-de-sac til we bled, backyard games of pickle til we fought, and the torturing of any earthworm that had the bad sense to surface after a rainstorm. (I know, I know, there’s a special place in hell for people like me who prey upon innocent invertebrates – don’t email me, I have repented.) Lunchtime was free-floating and usually “provided” by whichever neighbor mom happened to be in the basement doing laundry when we got hungry. The “counselors” – meticulously selected by us “campers” from the older neighbor kids, taught us many essential life skills, such as: how to jump an Evel Knieval doll and motorcycle over a basketball backboard, how to make-out using one’s pillow as a practice partner, and how to dial a push-button wall phone fast enough to win all kinds of cool free stuff from the local radio station. Valuable life skills I call on to this day. This year, as summer approaches and I contemplate the options for my children, I may be liberating a cork from a cheeky little pinot, but for different reasons. It will be a celebratory glass I raise instead of a medicinal one. This year, three of my four kids (ages 10, 14, 15, and 17) are teenagers, which means they’ll most definitely find ways to have fun during their summer break. But along with acne, horrible taste in music, and teen angst, comes another teenage rite-of-passage: the work permit. This year, I won’t be having the “Holy-Crap-It’s-Almost-Summer-What’ll–I-Do-With-Them Moment” because this year, my teens will be attending “Camp Summer Job.” Raise your glass with me now- “Here’s to summertime!”
Posted on: Thu, 13 Jun 2013 01:32:03 +0000
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