Summer is a favorite of so many for one obvious reason: it is the one season when total disintegration of social mores is completely acceptable.

In summer you don’t have to wear shoes, eat your vegetables, or balance your checkbook (or maybe that last one is just my rule?)

Bath. On a summer day we just can’t be bothered with a lot of things that seem important the rest of the year, such as bathing.

My children are absolutely certain that a quick trip through the backyard sprinkler is more than equal to a long, hot shower. Soap, of course, is entirely optional.

Our son is also prone to standing in slack-jawed shock if confronted with the outlandish notion that he may, in fact, need to wear shoes at some time during the summer.

In his world, if shoes are required, then he’s absolutely certain that he has no desire to go there.

Blooming anew. Summertime is also a time when so many wondrous things not seen during lesser seasons bloom anew such as crabgrass, charcoal grills and ice cream trucks.

It is a little known fact that ice cream trucks are quite possibly the one instance where city kids have an upper hand over the otherwise hands-down slam-dunk superiority that country life has over urban living.

Sure, country kids have fresh air, wide open spaces, trees to climb (and fall out of), creeks and rivers to explore (and fall into), but can that really compare to the late afternoon jingle of a pied piper of ice cream off in the distance? I think not!

Trucking. In my day as a “city kid,” the ice cream truck’s appearance was surely the high point of the day for me and my fellow free-range street urchins.

We’d hear the distant, slightly creepy, yet mesmerizing musical tinkle of their bells, grab our coins (in reality my mother’s coins, I had no pride when it came to sweets), and race off with great speed, tracking the truck down like blood-hounds.

I was, of course, the same child who couldn’t find the laundry room in my own house throughout most of the years I lived there.

But an ice cream truck three city blocks away I could locate with only the coins clutched in my sweaty little fists to guide me.

Sadly, here in the sticks we don’t have ice cream trucks, although once in a great while we might score a frozen Coke from the cooler down at the feed store.

Dog days. We are in the midst of summer vacation and the new has not (quite) worn off yet.

By this I mean the children haven’t really begun to bicker in earnest (yet).

Nonetheless, the dogs have firmly grasped the spirit of the season and are firmly entrenched in their summer identities.

They shall henceforth be known as “he who runs through screen doors” and “he who inhales all pool toys.”

These summer alter-egos are helpful for keeping track of them as I engage in my ongoing daily battle to convince them that wicker and related outdoor accessories are not, in fact, a food group.

Heat. When it comes to feeding the humans underfoot, I take the notion that “if you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen” literally.

I serve nothing but food that doesn’t require cooking at all, like “the carbohydrate based salad family a la potato, pasta, and/or macaroni salad; or meat that is best cooked outdoors by anyone else but me — mainly Mr. Right.

I am all for any season where my entire cooking involvement consists mainly of tossing bags of charcoal in my spouse’s direction every few days or so, and standing far enough back so as not to lose any facial hair in the conflagration.

From the freezer. Finally, the children, helpful as ever, are doing their part to help me keep my cool on these unseasonably hot early summer days.

They are deeply committed to proving that they can, in fact, live entirely on freezer pops.

As a result, they are also cooling two-thirds of the house with the constant opening and closing of the freezer doors.

Granted this has taken the temperature in the kitchen down a notch.

I, however, get a little hot under the collar when it comes to the electric bill. Although I find a nice backyard bonfire and a glass of wine can do wonders for that.

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I have a lifetime history of seasonal allergies and migraines. Some of my clearest summertime childhood memories are of me in my bed with a nauseating pounding in my head while my mom tried to get some medication down my throat. I could hear my sisters and my friends outside, swimming, or playing tag, or doing something else that sounds really fun. I lay in my dark room, the curtains closed tight, fantasizing about decapitation.

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Waking, baking,

breakfast in the making.

Dressing, no stressing,

schedule is not pressing.

Preening, sun-screening

saftey has new meaning.

Bikes, Hikes

outings and the likes.

“Water, daughter!” 

sun is getting hotter.

Lunching, munching

sounds of kiddies crunching.

Rest, nap fest

mommy knows what’s best.

Energize, bright eyes

Return to grass and sunny skies.

Explore, outdoor

Who could ask for more?

Befriending, play pretending

popsicles unending.

Mess up, dress up

“They look so cute!” I fess up.

Sunning, funning

Until the day is done-ing.

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Okay, I lie. I’ve BEEN back but we are getting ready to relocate so I’ve been busy pretending to pack

Things that suck about moving with an infant:

Everything.

Things that don’t suck:

Finding a $25 gift card to Barnes and Noble under the bed!

Seriously though, lets talk about my current dilemma which is spring clothing. Post baby I do NOT enjoy clothes shopping because everything fits so strangely. Huge boobs that don’t fit into cute tank tops: check. Flabby stomach that, when paired up with a tunic top makes you look four months pregnant: Double check. I wish I could just wear cute nightgowns like the ones Anthropologie has all day long [oh and I wish I were rich enough to buy all of them...send me money?]

Momma’s: where do you shop. What clothes flatter a post-pregnancy body, and lastly: how good is Starbucks Java chip ice cream on a hot summer afternoon?

…more later, I’m totally going to get one now!

Oh and PS for those that were dying to know: Yes my honeymoon was lovely. We slept & ate carbs like it’s nobodies business.  We got wild in the hot tub for all of ten minutes until I decided it was “far too hot and making me sleepy…” we went hiking until we were out of breath [twenty minutes], and I called and checked on Paige 3x per day and referenced her about 175x per day. The second we were home I was sighing and slightly aggravated. Ahh motherhood!

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Today is my kids’ last day of school. Just the thought of summer break strikes a crippling fear in my heart and now, it is on my doorstep, ringing the doorbell. “I’m not home! Go away!” I’m yelling from under my blanket of denial, but he refuses to leave. I know that I have to open the damn door. I know it. I just cannot bring myself to leave the comfort that has been my denial for the past few days.

I have all of the teacher’s gifts, wrapped and ready to give. It is my last ditch effort to plead with them to take my kids home for the summer. My second grader’s teacher asked if we would keep the class pet, a frog, for the summer. I offered her an even trade…the frog for the second grader. She laughed. I didn’t. Maybe nobody will notice if I forget to pick up the kids after school today. Maybe I can bribe the custodian to lock them in the utility closet for ten weeks. Maybe I can pay her to slide some food and water under the door, so they survive. Maybe I can find a mission trip to send the kids on. What better way to spend the summer than learning about how good life really is in the United States? So they risk Malaria and other unpleasant side effects of third world visitation, it is all part of the experience, right? With great rewards, come great risks!

Okay, so I sound a little desperate. I am. The little beasts were off of school for one extra day, last week. Our house and my temper suffered greatly, that day. They “accidentally” spilled a smoothie in the cable box and broke it. They “accidentally” rode their scooters in the house and made several gouges in the wall, before I caught them. They “accidentally” poured a bottle of baby shampoo all over the bathroom floor, to clean up the ink pen that “accidentally” broke and splatter painted the floor a lovely shade of midnight. They “accidentally” killed my last shred of sanity. I’m not sure how I’m going to avoid being the next “Parent Gone Mad, Drowns Her Children” news headline, but something has to be figured out. I decided to seek out divine intervention, yesterday. I emailed my husband’s uncle, who is a priest, to seek some advice. I kid you not, this was our correspondence:

“Hi Uncle John. How are you? We are fine. The kids will be out of school on Friday. I’m a little scared. It makes me wonder how your sister (my mother in law) survived summer break with 13 kids! Any guidance that you can offer me? Love, Kadi”

“Dear Kadi, I am doing well. Find a summer program for the kids…quickly. Love, Fr. (uncle) John”

I was expecting some words of wisdom, a prayer, a novena, or even a suggestion of exorcism. Nope. He told me to find a place to shove my kids for the summer. Even the priest knows I’m doomed. I’m heading to the store now, to buy a lot of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, Clorox Wipes, duct tape, rope, Lexapro and other survival essentials. Then, I’m going to schedule some weekly phone “confessions” with Uncle John, because I’m going to need some major absolution of sin, for the next ten weeks! Now, how am I going to leave the house, without opening the door for the grim reaper who is still lurking on my stoop?

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