I counted the days until school. 19 days. NINETEEN DAYS.
August 26 sounds like an eternity from now, but it’s only NINETEEN DAYS. By the time you’re reading this it could very well be 18, 17, or even 16, so really the earlier you read this, the less traumatizing it is for me.
I have been struggling this summer. We haven’t gotten out of the house as much as I would have liked. I’m less inclined to take them to the YMCA since I can’t really work out. We’ve been swimming several times and splash padding a few, but not as many as I would have thought. We haven’t really been on as many adventures as I originally thought we would.
Y’all, this was my living room the other day. I just can’t. The stool and the laundry basket and the empty diaper boxes are all part of an elaborate train system. Obvs. The rest I can’t exactly vouch for.
And then I did THE COUNTDOWN, and hyperventilated a little, because nineteen days is less than three weeks. That means the next several days will be filled with school shopping, backpacks, supplies that I forgot to order at the end of last school year in the handy package that would be delivered right to their classroom like back-to-school magic.
And then I panicked that we haven’t packed enough SUMMER into our summer, and we need to go to the park and to more splash pads and to the museum. Or maybe we just need to get our money’s worth out of our Y membership and camp out at the pool every day with a picnic and a bucket of sunblock.
And then I heaved a little because FIRST GRADE! My babies will be in a number grade! No more kindergarten. Will first grade have a Teddy Bear Picnic and Polar Express Pajama Day? I surely hope so, because otherwise I’ll be feeling like it’s like the end of their childhood or something.
And then I saw a man pushing a double stroller with teeny tiny infants in it and I got all choked up and almost fell off the treadmill at the Y, because I will never have babies again. I will never watch little toddlers topple over as they’re just learning to walk, or chubby little 2-year-olds laughing and shouting “WAIN!” while signing “rain” with their hands. I will never experience words like “blowies” and “ladypop.” They’re only going to get taller and older and sassier.
And now I just want to go watch them sleep and stroke their hair and whisper creepily, “Stay leeeeeetle, mah preshuses.”
So I vow to make the most of these nineteen days (eighteen, seventeen, sixteen…). We will fun all over this town like it’s a verb and explore and get ice cream and raise the roof and etc.
And then as I drove to my physical therapy appointment the other day, I smelled a terrible, burning chemically smell that I chalked up to nearby roadwork. And then I noticed the air blowing on me wasn’t cool anymore, and there wasn’t actually any roadwork. And I texted my husband, “I think I just broke the car.”
So summer, you are officially on hold until I get my car back, and maybe you can be free, since I now have to drop $1000 on a new AC and whatever else the mechanic man said needed to be done.
Which is why my children are currently playing in the sprinkler. And the inevitable mud that ensues from the sprinkler being on in my patchy yard. And I’m pretending they won’t have mud caked in crevices in which mud should never be caked.