Mom finally gets a summer vacation

ARE WE THERE YET

LORI CLINCH

Back in the day, the thought of the school year coming to an end felt like a blow to the gut.

There was no getting away from it. The date was outlined in crayon on the calendar. There was a huge countdown on the chalkboard with hourly update,s and then there was the repetitive voice calling out, “Hey Mom! Guess what? We only have three days left of school. Can you even stand it?”

Then they would chant over and over, “Three days, three days, thre-e-e-e days! Yay!”

For the sake of humor as well as a chance to rub it in some more, the chant was promptly followed by tail wagging and the ever-loving, “Oh yeah!”

It wasn’t that I didn’t love having the children with me day and night. It’s just that I knew my life would feel like someone dumped it out like yesterday’s garbage and now I had to put it all back together again.

Gone would be the quiet days when I could hear the clock tick and the sound of my own voice. Flushed toilets would be a thing of the past, glass-free counters would become a distant memory, and the prospect of actually finishing my Diet Coke by myself would be more than I could hope for.

That last day of school was always something, I’ll give you that. Those little charges of mine would come flying out of the school doing about 50 mph as they raced to the car and prepared to throw down, if they had to, to get the front seat. It was the first brawl commencing the summer’s long battle for shotgun.

They would want to know where we were going for our celebratory lunch, what events I had planned for their afternoon, and if about 30 of their buddies could spend the night.

Once home, they would run through the back door, dropping their clothes as they went. They would pull on swimming trunks faster than you could say, “Last one out is a rotten egg!”

Once outside, they ran through the sprinklers just long enough to pick up three bushels of grass clippings on their feet so they could track it back into the house, declare themselves “freezing” and climb under a mound of clean blankets with their wet and muddy swimsuits.

It was official. Summer vacation had started.

We spent the mornings at swimming lessons, afternoons at the park, and earned a second family income, albeit meager, by selling lemonade on the driveway.

Summer evenings? Oh, those were a killer. Five nights a week we would prepare to haul the clan to the ball park for as many as four games at a time. I’d pack a cooler with sandwiches, fill an Igloo with water, and pack clothing that was suitable for everything from an arctic blast to a heat so intense it would melt your flip-flops right into the sand.

We went on family bike rides for ice cream, took long walks, and sometimes laid in the back yard looking up at the stars until we got bored or someone started a dog pile. Whichever came first.

My, how things have changed. Last Friday was the last day of school, but our Little Charlie, who isn’t so little anymore, was the sole celebrant and drove himself home.

Although he did a daily countdown of days, he didn’t wonder what I had lined up for his big event, because he had made his own plans to have a nice little congratulatory lunch with his buddies.

Thanks to summer jobs and good times with friends, I am no longer on the steering committee for familial entertainment.

I don’t have to make a vat of Ramen noodles for lunch, the cheap hot dogs go uneaten, and more than likely the only living soul running through the sprinklers will be the family dog.

I can’t remember the last time I thought about tearing my hair out, chastised a kid for dragging grass clippings across the clean floor, or purchased a tub of lemonade mix to sell on the driveway.

But yesterday I cleaned the bathroom and it stayed clean, and when I returned to the kitchen counter, my Diet Coke was just where I put it and it was still full. Best yet, I watched the sunset from my front porch instead of the ice-cold bleachers at the baseball field. It almost felt like a mini-summer vacation in and of itself.

It sure is different, but maybe it’s not all bad. Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].