On the First Monday of Summer Break

I shall wonder why there are men talking in my kitchen,

Only to realize, those are my teenaged sons.

I will talk to myself — and they will answer.

Which will startle me, because I’m used to working at home, alone.

I will ask the kids if they have homework, and soon they will stop answering me.

I shall realize that neither the snacks nor the dishwashing detergent will last as long as I thought they would.

I shall praise Netflix, ice pops and soccer balls,

Long before I curse Netflix, ice pops and soccer balls.

I will make many short trips around town in my car to drop my kids and their friends off at various locations while trying to write in my head.

I will forget what I wrote and have to start over at my computer.

I will take the kids to the lake and then pretend I am not there when their friends show up because they will find my presence embarrassing.

Until they need cash.

Of course.

And a ride home.

I will grumble about crumbs and dirty socks and whatever the hell that is stuck to the kitchen table.

I will yell, “Knock it off!” and “Stop kicking the ball in the house!” umpteen times, because “umpteen” is a word clearly coined by a parent.

I will dream of September, and I will dread it, too.

On the first Monday of Summer Break, I will do these things, and I will do them all summer long.

Until the first day of school, when I will miss it all.