The person that instituted the three-month summer vacation from school was a sadist! It's an obvious test of your motherhood — and I'm afraid I'm failing. The only hope I have is that the end of the summer will find my address the same as it is now. Of course, there are a number of alternatives:
I could be removed from the premises in a straight jacket and deposited in a padded cell, where I will be retrained to speak, converse, pray and whisper in normal tones again.
I might be abducted by a farmer passing by the house as I'm `addressing' the children, because he decided I'd make a fantastic automated scarecrow.
I could be taken to the hospital with one or another part of my body malfunctioning, e.g., my jaw locked from clenching, my throat ruptured from yelling, my finger broken from shaking or poking, my eyes dried up and incapable of blinking from the sand in them, or my hair burned because I failed to pay close attention at the marshmallow roast.
Or I might just leave of my own accord, because my attitude had sunk so low that the `joys of motherhood' boil down to just once being able to find something right where you left it — even if it's only the dog's `daily' out on the patio.
My problems seem to fit nicely into five categories — sleep, interruptions, laundry, recreation and `my plans'.
Sleep. I don't think kids indulge in this activity. Or, at least, to the best of my knowledge, they don't. I hear them rumbling and buzzing as I drop off, and I hear the same sounds as I come to. And since, as close as I can estimate, I only get twenty minutes sleep out of every twenty-four hour day, I think it's a fair assumption to say kids don't sleep. Oh, once in a while I catch a glimpse of one of them at the playground sitting on a swing that isn't moving; I have a hunch their battery's being recharged. But I can't say they're sleeping because the mouth is still making chewing motions, although that itself could be a reflex.
Interruptions. I've decided that to have one complete thought I must climb into the oven in the basement, shut the door and turn it on. This gives me twenty-five seconds before it gets too hot, and during which the kids can be fooled into thinking there is something in the oven for them to eat. I know there are women in this world who have the time to think about trips to the Bahamas; I just wonder if they'd ever understand how I treasure my twenty-five seconds in the oven. Not only do I have enough time to think — but the gas fumes calm me down a little.
Laundry. My laundry seems to have tripled, with bath towels being the main things to wash. And every towel is accompanied by a bathing suit. Since we don't have a pool, I'm very curious — but not brave enough to inquire about where they swim. If the fire hydrant at the corner is not the spot, then I'm afraid the neighbor's new bird bath is. Which leads to the next problem of...
Recreation. Five minutes after school let out, Deborah said, "I'm bored, there's nothing to do." Panic gripped my heart as I computed how many five minutes there were in the three months, and then multiplied this figure by four children. I took myself a quick twenty-five seconds in the oven. When I returned, I had decided the solution was to have a list of suggestions to occupy your time. I knew I'd have to be careful to avoid activities that would include me. Using that as my criteria, I was left with but two suggestions — brushing your teeth and looking out the window.
When I posted the list, the kids rolled on the floor in fits of laughter and said, "Hey, Ma, that's real funny stuff. What are you going to do next to amuse us, because we're bored!" Back to the oven!
After that trip, I opted for programmed activities, like swimming lessons. I'd call the local Y and see what they had to offer. After I waded through the 25-page information (?) book, I concluded as nearly as I could that the nominal cost would be $4,523.56 — and for that they would only be willing to try. I signed the kids up and after one week deduced that the lessons were conducted by graduates of the fling-'em-into-the-pool method, and/or relatives of the staff who couldn't get a job anywhere else. I also found out they were not responsible for any `misadventures,' and they would not refund any money paid in advance should you choose to curtail further `education' of your child. Wanting to see the positive side I had to admit they did teach the kids something — even if it was to be afraid of the water and anybody in it except themselves.
My Plans. As you may have guessed these include only mere survival. I've found I can do anything I want, provided I combine it with the given activity of the moment. I can visit a friend — if I leave the kids in the car with enough food to occupy them for twenty minutes and weld the doors shut. I can go to the toilet — if I leave the door open and yell out every few seconds, "It's time to brush your teeth, gang" (thereby eliminating the possibility of anyone coming near the bathroom). Working out such a successful formula requires at least five years of on-the-job experience as either a mother, or a combination lion tamer, mine sweeper and politician.
To survive the rest of the summer, I have devised just enough rules to keep my self-respect (and the feeling that I am the authority figure) — but not too many to remind me I lost my self respect the first day of the summer and have control of this house as long as I don't try to say or do anything. Violation of any one of these rules subjects the kid to lecture No. 473, titled "Someday, you'll be parents and I hope your children treat you..." This lecture comes complete with dramatic floor pacing, hand gestures and deep sighs of exasperation. If, however, all the rules are followed, then on the first day of school I intend to reward each of them with whatever they want (if they untie me and let me out of the closet).
If you are a new mother and reading this you're probably shocked. If you're a father, you're probably thinking you could do a better job of raising kids. If you are a grandmother, you're probably "tsk-tsking" all over the place. But, if you're a mother with children home for summer vacation, you're probably trying to read this by the light of your closet keyhole. And to you, mother, comes my word of encouragement. Summer vacation is almost over — just one more month and life will be back to normal????!!!!??