Wednesday, May 25, 2011
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas
My friend Danielle once said May is the new December, and I've been quoting her ever since. I feel like I've been running around like a mad woman for the last two weeks. Teeth cleanings, annual exams, this errand, that errand. And, of course, the second grade poetry festival.
Just when you think it's safe to get out of bed without brushing your hair, they spring the second grade poetry festival on you. We were this close to school being over and done with, this close to saying no more hot lunches, no more classroom theme parties, no more field trips. I thought I was done. But no. Yesterday Will comes home from Our Fine School with an invitation to spend the first thirty minutes of my Wednesday morning enjoying poetry.
Well, I love poetry, and there is little poetry finer that penned by a second grader, but the second grade poetry festival--the idea of having to find somewhere deep inside me that last bit of school rah rah cheerful mommy-ness--Reader, I thought it might kill me.
Fortunately, it didn't. And once I was there, all was delightful and amazing. It was just the idea of having to go, you know? The idea of one more thing. The idea of having to comb my hair before 8 a.m..
It's the little things that undo you.
So summer is a-cumin' in. The Summer of Pie. The summer where Jack cooks dinner once a week, and the boys and I begin our quest to find the best hamburger in town. We're going to go to lunch at a new burger joint each week. We're going to take notes. We're going to compare and contrast.
Really, it's all I can think of. That, and going to the pool.
Tonight, I made the last school lunches of the year. My last night of feeling guilty for being such a lame mom and packing pretty much the same thing every single time. I have no lunch imagination. I eat the same thing every day for breakfast (scrambled eggs) and lunch (salad with walnuts and avocado). I'm boring that way. And now my children will be boring that way, too.
But I don't have to worry about it for eleven more weeks. And maybe next fall, I'll make the boys make their own lunches.
That'll show 'em.