Summertime and the livin's easy

Unless you have a six year old who loves school and thrives on structure. After forty-eight hours of summer I uttered words that would have been unimaginable a year ago: “One more word and I’ll find a sleep-away summer camp that takes first graders for the entire summer”.

Of course, I could enroll her and her sister in day camp or sundry other activities that would let them open and enrich their minds, but seriously. I have summer and a two week stretch in December during which I can sleep in a bit and only worry about dressing and feeding myself in the mornings. This is my vacation, sad as that might seem, as well.

I also am a firm believer in the unstructured glory days of summer. Swimming, firefly catching, barbeques, swing sets, mosquito bites, bicycles, out until the streetlights come on - all that fabulous Americana that I want for my children, even if my paranoia (drowning/sunburns, light pollution has driven them away, carcinogens in the burned bits, broken arms, allergic to mosquitoes, hit by a car, child predators) gets in the way more often than not. It’s sad, really. Chances are that without a concerted effort from Rob and myself, as well as some Xanax and a nice glass of wine, an unstructured summer will mean entirely way too much television, a fair amount of bickering, and a few frantic trips out of the house during which we pray “No Fair, Sissy…” does not turn into an international incident.

We discussed summer after a decidedly inauspicious Sunday (“If you cannot find something pleasant to think of that will wipe that sour puss off your face, I will do it for you” – fine parenting moment #203) and came to a potentially catastrophic decision. No cartoons. Television shall be limited to the History Channel, Animal Planet and the like. The Learning Channel is out since they have become a little tawdry what with all the combinations of physical handicaps/bizarre birth stories/unfortunate accidents and maimings. I’m sure they mean well, but somewhere along the way they veered from Interstate Celebrate Differences to Farm-to-Market Circus Sideshow. Back to the cartoons. Be it something soft and sweet from PBS or that dratted yellow sponge and his blobbish pink sidekick, my children get all vacant and open mouthed when they watch them, and decidedly desperate when we switch them off. The intake episodes of Celebrity Rehab are less dramatic than the hour at our house after we turn the television off. Rob has the entire series of America: The Story of Us lined up, and I cannot wait to see how Lewis and Clark hold up against Scooby and the gang.

The backyard is currently a no man’s land, primarily because we have decided to donate some habitat to a mosquito population in need. We sent Sage out last week covered in all sorts of toxins and chemicals, and she returned with bites so swollen and bothersome that I didn’t dab calamine lotion on them. I soaked the cotton balls in calamine and taped them directly onto the bites. When you try to choose between DEET and West Nile Virus and they both win, it’s time to throw in the towel and pull out some board games.

The front yard is out for two reasons. First, we face west and have one severely stunted oak tree in the yard – I’ve seen tanning beds with more shade than our front yard has at three in the afternoon. Secondly, one of our neighbors has complained to the HOA about us no fewer than four times this year (trash can placement twice, a strand of Christmas lights so buried in rosemary that it could not been seen from the street, and the stray cat that lives behind said hedge). Let’s pause a moment and consider that one street over sits a yard that is reliably mowed once a quarter; instead of a tree, he has a PVC pipe topped with a beer can and ringed with two car tires. I do not jest. I’ve called, suggested, complained, and even offered to mow the yard myself on the chance that the resident had some sort of disability. I’m relatively certain the bylaws of our HOA prohibit this kind of décor, but given the widespread trash can anarchy, I have to assume they’re a little tied up at the moment. In any case, I have a tendency to glare balefully and do enjoy a good pout, so no front yard for a while. You just know that the whole street will notice, and care, right?

Summertime. I want them to have the summertime of my youth, but to be honest, after we moved to Texas, that consisted of a lot of late mornings, a little Days of our Lives with lunch (did you know that the storyline only advances about three days between the first day of school and the first day of the following summer?) and afternoons at the pool. It was just too hot for anything else. Mom and Dad discovered summer camp two years later and the rest is history. I was out of the house and half wild all summer long and loved every minute of it. I hope one day there will be enough Xanax and wine in the world for me to give that to my children.

UPDATE:
1. The bylaws of our HOA in fact do not prohibit beer can décor so long as your lawn is neat and edged. I am shopping for pink flamingos and yard gnomes this weekend.

2. They are up to the Civil War and completely enthralled. At this rate I'll need to procure a history professor and a trip to Valley Forge to round off the season.

The best laid plans...

6:30 PM
Ashton wants to bring cookies to her teacher and teacher’s aide. Rather than make them from scratch, I decide to fake it and splurge with a gourmet organic break and bake.

8:00 PM
Storm clouds gather. I wait, not wanting to lose power mid-bake.

8:30 PM
The fury of hell is unleashed above us, lights are flickering, and I decide to psotpone until the storms are completely past.

9:30 PM
I preheat the oven and slap those bad boys on a cookie sheet. Of course, a circle of raw dough is snagged for quality control purposes.

9:41 PM
The cookies are warm and soft, but still retain their block-like shape. The house smells oddly of sour milk.

9:48 PM
The cookies are brown and hard, and still in their original block-like shape. I throw them away and convince Rob to run to HEB for some trusty Toll House break and bake.

10:00 PM
Rob calls from HEB – there are no lights on in the shopping center.

10:05 PM
Rob is the last customer admitted to the generator-powered store.

10:10 PM
The store is not selling cold or frozen goods due to the power outage. I send him to the baking aisle for vanilla, brown sugar and flour.

10:30 PM
I commence the from-scratch baking that I oh-so-cleverly plotted to avoid five hours previously.

12:00 PM
Done.

6:30 AM
Remember the cookie dough I sampled? My gills are green and I’ve lost five pounds between waking up and right now.