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.
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.