It’s the first official day of summer vacation.
I say “official” because my youngest child has already been on vacation for two weeks, and my older two have had half-days for most of this week. So it was a nice gradual sliding-in start of the vacation.
My oldest is spending the day at the beach with friends. I am crossing my fingers that she is a better fifteen-year old than I was, and trusting her when she says that she and her friends will not be drinking or diving off the pier. Well, I’m trying to trust her. I’m trying really, really hard.
I remember being fifteen.
I will probably only see her this summer when she returns for clean laundry and spending money.
My fourteen year-old has already retreated to his bedroom with video games and a salami sandwich. I may not see him again until September unless I lure him out with occasional promises of homemade food.
And my youngest? Well, it’s not quite one o’clock, and so far today he and I have:
- Baked Black-Bottom Banana Bar Cookies
- Checked the chicken coop for eggs six times
- Walked to the mailbox three times
- Walked to the dam to throw rocks at the bluegills
- Had a toy animal parade through the living room, laundry room, kitchen and bathroom
- Practiced baseball with a big plastic bat and ball
- Played three games of Sorry! and two of Monopoly Junior.
Through it all, one thing has remained constant: the boy Has. Not. Stopped. Talking. Not once. Not for a moment. Not to breathe or eat, or drink. Talk, talk, talk. Every third sentence out of his mouth begins with “Hey, Mom?”
I have not had a complete thought since 6:30 this morning.
Right now, I am pretty sure my mother is looking down from Heaven and laughing her ass off.
My kids look nothing like me. They all three inherited their father’s beautiful blue eyes and long legs and even his shoulder-dimples. They’ve all three got his natural grace and coordination. Not one of them is short or clumsy or stocky like me.
But my oldest thrives on an audience, just like me. My middle one is voracious reader, just like me. And my youngest . . . well, he never shuts up.
It would seem that he is his mother’s son. A wild imangination and a steady stream of great ideas chasing each other around in his mind. And not enough hours in the day to say or do everything that occurs to him.
And the attention span of a hummingbird on crack.
Anybody hear that? It’s the sound of my Elementary school teachers, babysitters, relatives and childhood friends having a big collective laugh over the fact that Karma is bitch-slapping me right now.