Summer break alters quiet time
Some people think of the summer break from school as a vacation. But with a house full of teenagers, I think of it as the time of year when my children are released back into the wild. And I am caged.
In the summer my children prefer to flip their schedule and instead of sleeping all night and playing all day, they stay up all night and sleep as late as I’ll let them.
I have to get up extra-early so I can work while they’re asleep. Of course I also get to stay up late waiting for them to come home, or simply trying to corral them into bed. The hours in between are spent nagging them to do their chores, or driving them around town.
All the mothers of young children look bronzed and well rested. I sport a truck-driver’s tan on my left arm from living behind the wheel.
Instead of a healthy glow, I have dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, and a nervous tic because the television I never watch when I am home alone plays music videos 24 hours a day. And it’s so loud the lampshades vibrate.
If I do manage to fall asleep at night while they are all still awake, someone will decide to make smoothies and need to crush ice with a hammer, or get the steam cleaner out to clean up something that “nobody” spilled on the carpet. Or they tiptoe into my room to whisper, “Does this look like a black widow spider? Hey, where did it go?”
The dog will gain 5 pounds and then develop an irritable stomach from eating food that’s been left all over the house, and the litter box won’t get cleaned until it turns into a Superfund site.
Grocery stores will post record profits and the pizza delivery boy, like the old fashioned milkman, will stop by each day to remove the empty box and replace it with a large pepperoni: extra cheese, thin crust.
Every room in the house will have a damp towel on the floor, and no matter how many times I do the dishes there won’t be a clean glass in the cabinet.
By the time summer is over, and the new school year is in sight, I’ll be hiding under my bed with a battered copy of “Jane Eyre,” a flashlight, and a bottle of hard lemonade.
(Listen, you show me a loving, nurturing, mother who hasn’t hidden from her children at least once and I’ll show you a woman whose job requires frequent travel.)
I’ve spent a few summers with these kids so I know what to expect. That’s why I asked them to show a little mercy this year.
“Remember, I work at home,” I told them.
“I need some quiet time so I can hear myself think, so I can hear my ‘voice’ and can write,” I whined. “I get upset when I don’t get a little time to myself.”
I swear I could see my words bouncing off their foreheads. They had no idea what I was saying.
For all I know they told their friends, (who told their parents) that their mother hears voices.
And by the end of the summer, that just might be true.