Summer plans
Oh yes, I have dreams of a fabulous summer, in spite of not going on any sort of family vacation. I dream that I will be able to sit out on the deck in my chaise longue (YES that's how it is spelled. Well, one way. The way I spelled it in a Modern American Usage class and the professor thought it was wrong, BUT IT WASN'T. FACE!) with a cheesy sci-fi book and a refreshing glass of ice cold Tang, with the wind playing gently (not gustily or lustily) and warmly (but not to hotly) across my modestly unclad legs (shins). No child would dare disturb my peace for at least an hour. The children in the house behind us would play inside all day. I wouldn't have to babysit. No cars would drive past, revving engines and speeding through the stop sign. The bugs would all be on vacation in Iowa or Wisconsin. The fragrant smell of petunias from the hanging baskets would perfume the air and sweet peace would wrap me in a blanket of bliss!
Right.
No, it is beyond any child's ability to leave a parent alone for that long. There is always some dire, urgent, pressing need to be filled only by mother--Mom! The refrigerator light is out! Mom, there's a bug on the wall! Mom, can I have a yogurt? Mom, do we have any bread? Mom, can Annabell come over? Mom, how do you fill out this form? Mom, guess what would happen if I made really loud popping noises with my mouth all day? (I would tell you to stop and I would try really hard to refrain from kicking you) Mom, can I? Mom, can you? Mom, mom, mommommommom....
And the neighborhood children will all be outside, engines will rev, stop signs ignored. Bugs will bite and pester, the petunias will shrivel and die from the heat. The Tang will be warm and the chaise unable to be wrestled into perfect relaxation form. The wind will be either too hot or too cold, the air too stifling or too chilly. And the book, despite my love for cheese, will be grating and unreadable.
And this will be the summer of road reconstruction along our street. Yessir, I can look forward to three solid months of asphalt-chewing madness. Three months of gassy trucks belching blackened spumes of throat-clogging smoke in my neighborhood. Three months of bouncing along a pitted gravel obstacle course to get to my driveway (uh, we're one of the lucky ones, actually, since we live right on the corner of Road Construction Ave and Not Road Construction St. So we only have to go about 30 feet through the pits of minor heck). Three months of a 7 a.m. wake-up call from diesel engines and hydraulic machinery. No need to play music when we have the whine of jackhammers, punctuated by percussive thumps and bumps of chunks of street falling into the dumptruck. Oh joy. The countdown to road construction is the same as the countdown to the last day of school. They start the day the busses don't run.
Right.
No, it is beyond any child's ability to leave a parent alone for that long. There is always some dire, urgent, pressing need to be filled only by mother--Mom! The refrigerator light is out! Mom, there's a bug on the wall! Mom, can I have a yogurt? Mom, do we have any bread? Mom, can Annabell come over? Mom, how do you fill out this form? Mom, guess what would happen if I made really loud popping noises with my mouth all day? (I would tell you to stop and I would try really hard to refrain from kicking you) Mom, can I? Mom, can you? Mom, mom, mommommommom....
And the neighborhood children will all be outside, engines will rev, stop signs ignored. Bugs will bite and pester, the petunias will shrivel and die from the heat. The Tang will be warm and the chaise unable to be wrestled into perfect relaxation form. The wind will be either too hot or too cold, the air too stifling or too chilly. And the book, despite my love for cheese, will be grating and unreadable.
And this will be the summer of road reconstruction along our street. Yessir, I can look forward to three solid months of asphalt-chewing madness. Three months of gassy trucks belching blackened spumes of throat-clogging smoke in my neighborhood. Three months of bouncing along a pitted gravel obstacle course to get to my driveway (uh, we're one of the lucky ones, actually, since we live right on the corner of Road Construction Ave and Not Road Construction St. So we only have to go about 30 feet through the pits of minor heck). Three months of a 7 a.m. wake-up call from diesel engines and hydraulic machinery. No need to play music when we have the whine of jackhammers, punctuated by percussive thumps and bumps of chunks of street falling into the dumptruck. Oh joy. The countdown to road construction is the same as the countdown to the last day of school. They start the day the busses don't run.
Comments
And don't forget that you might have a new calling, too.
I figure we'll all have plenty of ME time once we're barely able to walk on our own.
No grandchildren for probably longer than that, Dad. Kate understands that I'm not old enough for grandchildren and so she has generously refrained from even dating, much less marrying anyone.