Summer Expectations With Kids Vs. Reality (The Teenage Version)

Every June I clutch my planner to my chest lovingly and dream of all that the upcoming summer has in store for me and my kids (and hubby, too). I have overnight trips planned, day outings, leisurely strolls on the beach and campfires with s’mores. I have relaxing by the pool days in mind, as well as days spent riding roller coasters. I’ve got bedroom painting plans and garage cleaning out plans—okay, they may not be fun, but they’re a necessary evil. Why not do them when we have the extra time? And every damn August I look at that planner like I am today, and I fight the urge to burst into tears because nothing works out the way I expected. Every year is the same story…August arrives in a blink of an eye and I’m screaming at the kids to finish their summer reading projects and lamenting about what we didn’t do this break.

Expectation #1: We are going to get up early every morning and take a walk or go to the gym.

Reality: Kids are sleeping till almost noon every day. I am waking them up with a whistle after I eat lunch.

Expectation #2: I’ll cook more since we don’t have to rush anywhere and don’t have to eat at a certain time.

Reality: Party of four?

Expectation #3: We don’t even have to spend any money—we can just use the pool in our backyard every day. Heck…we don’t even have to GO anywhere.

Reality: IT. RAINED. ALMOST. EVERY. FRIGGIN. DAY. Or at least it seemed that way. And the days it didn’t rain, no one wanted to put sunblock on. And then it was too hot for the Prince and Princess of Air Conditioning to be outside. Plus, no one wants to go in the backyard anymore because our neighbor’s weeds are LITERALLY higher than our fence and the mosquitoes think we are a feast when we’re outside. Like seriously…I am out here now with two citronella candles, bug spray on, and a citronella wrist band. And they’re nibbling on me without a care in the world. I could play connect the dots with my mosquito bites.

Expectation #4: I’ll get a lot done around the house at least—even if it’s rainy all summer. I’m going to clean every room from top to bottom, paint the bedroom and get new blinds and a comforter. I’m going to fix the crack in the wall in the dining room and repaint it, clean out the garage, rearrange the laundry area downstairs, straighten up the attic, weed the whole backyard, lay a 10 x 10 stone patio in the backyard, fix the trellis that’s falling off the deck, clean out the closet in the front hall, go through the kids’ clothes and donate what they’ve outgrown (which is everything)…

Reality: I fixed the crack in the wall. And I didn’t even do a good job.

Expectation #5: The kids will be done with their summer reading books by the time our plane lands from vacation in early July.

Reality: Did you miss the part where I’m screaming at them to finish their f&@ing books??? They obviously have.

Expectation #6: The kids will not do anything fun this summer until all their chores are done for the day. In fact, they will have to do their chores before I even give them the Wifi code because I’m going to change it every night so they aren’t on their phones all night and sleeping till noon.

Reality: How do you change the Wifi code?

Expectation #7: We’re going to do fun family things together. The kids are getting old quickly. We’ll get Great Adventure season passes and go on other fun day trips.

Reality: Me—“Let’s go (insert activity here) today!” Hubby—“No, it’s too hot.” Kid #1—“Go to where? Eh, I don’t want to do that. Can you take me and my friends to the mall instead?” Kid #2—“I just want to stay home and watch YouTube videos of other people doing stuff.”

Expectation #8: If the kids don’t want to be with me, I’ll go down the shore once a week. Alone.

Reality: I’ve been there twice ūüė¶

Expectation #9: Everything is going to stay neat and clean all summer because at least I’ll have time to stay on top of things. And the kids are old enough to pick up after themselves, too. Oh, and I won’t have to do dishes constantly because I’m going to buy paper plates and bowls and plastic utensils and cups so I’m not constantly doing dishes.

Reality: I am very close to being buried alive by all the dishes in the sink, the laundry piling up, and my kids’ crap strewn all over the house like an obstacle course.

Expectation #10: If we haven’t really done anything, at least I’ll be relaxed when it’s time to go back to school, right?

Reality: How exactly does one relax with all these expectations hanging over one’s head???

Next year, I swear I’m not making a list. I will have NO expectations at all.

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The Curse of the Summer Reading Project

I wrote this over two years ago, yet it’s still completely relevant today. Nothing changes…*sigh*

Author Heather Balog

I have come to the conclusion that there are two types of people in this world. Those who squeal in delight at the sight of a bookstore or library (having to go change their underwear because they have peed when they discover their favorite author has put out a new book), and those who would rather have their nipples gnawed off by rabid coyotes than read a book.

I am, of course, of the former catagory while my husband is of the latter. This difference is not as significant as our Mets/Yankees rivalry, however, it has created a problem that we did not anticipate with procreating. We‚Äôve created a child who falls in the catagory of what can only be plainly labeled as a ‚Äúbook hater‚ÄĚ. ¬†It‚Äôs not too much of a problem‚Ķuntil summer, that is. Oh yes, it‚Äôs that time of year again. The dreaded summer reading project.

Who…

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I Went to the Beach…Alone

Twenty something years ago, long before I had kids, and even before I got married, I remember my best friend at the time telling me she had gone to the beach one afternoon by herself. I stared at her—a mixture of being appalled that she had gone by herself and hurt that she hadn’t asked me to go with her.

“Why would you do that?” I asked, hoping she would tell me she didn’t know I was available to go along. Instead, she told me she went by herself because she didn’t want to be with anyone else that day—she just wanted quiet.

I spent the rest of that night completely miffed. To me, going to the beach solo was on par with going to the movies by yourself or going to a restaurant by yourself. Wasn’t she embarrassed that she was at the beach¬†alone? Would she rather be at the beach alone than with me…her¬†best friend???

If I’m honest, that lone beach trip was actually the beginning of our friendship unraveling. I was hurt and confused by her actions. But now, twenty-something years, two kids, and a husband later…well now, I get it.

Now I am the one who goes to the beach alone. I’m the one who doesn’t want anyone to accompany me. I’m the one who goes for the peace and quiet.

I went to the beach alone this week and it was glorious. I drove down the way¬†I wanted to drive, no one making faces at my inability to set the cruise control, my terrible habit of changing lanes with impatience, and my speeds ranging from snail to The Fast and the Furious. No one to complain that my radio was blasting at a volume of 25 (Yup…it does go up that high). No one to mock my ridiculous posthumous crush on Kurt Cobain and my sudden fondness for flannel whenever Nirvana comes on the radio. No one to change the radio station when I put on the 60s station and sang off key. No one to roll their eyes when I have to stop to use the bathroom before I even get to the beach. No one to make me STOP to use the bathroom before I get to the beach because they can’t hold it. No one to throw up as we exit the Parkway (EVERY. DAMN. TIME.). There was no one to complain when I turned off the air conditioner and rolled down the windows so I could smell the salty air. There was no one to complain that I went to the beach without bathrooms, the beach that’s never crowded. And there wasn’t anyone to complain that the beach I picked was¬†too crowded. Nobody ran off as I was trying to put sunblock on them either.

There was no one to tell me that 10:45 was too early to eat lunch (so I ate my sandwich because I wanted to) and no one to complain to me that they were hungry the whole damn time. There was no one rummaging through the bag for snacks, dropping my keys and phone in the sand. Nobody begged me to go in the rough water and get knocked down by waves. Nobody told me they had to go to the bathroom RIGHT NOW and refused to go in the ocean instead. Nobody got sand on my blanket or dripped water on my towel. No one begged me to make a sand castle and then lost interest. I sat there and read my book, took a nap, and stared at the waves on MY time.

It was absolute bliss—heaven on Earth. That is…until a family of five (with four kids under the age of ten) parked down next to me on the nearly deserted beach. They could have gone anywhere on the beach but no, they picked me to torture. The kids proceeded to do EVERY LAST THING my own kids did when they would come to the beach with me…including getting way too close to my blanket and kicking sand on it.

I shot daggers at the harried mother…couldn’t she see this was MY time that her kids were interrupting? Couldn’t she see I’ve done this before? The crying, the screaming, the begging…the miserable beach trips? Couldn’t she see those days were over for me and I had no desire to partake in her miserable beach day?¬†I scooted my beach chair farther away from them.

Then I felt bad. It wasn’t this poor mother’s fault that kids are just miserable beach-fellows. I wanted to tell her it was going to be okay…I wanted to tell her that one day, she would be me…she would be by herself on the beach, enjoying the sun on her face and the blessed quiet. I mean…that is until someone else’s kids showed up. So I didn’t tell her anything. I just packed it in for the day and headed home. After all, if anyone’s kids are gonna drive me nuts, it might as well be my own.

Call Me Uber

The picture above could be a picture of me this summer. I feel like I haven’t gotten out of the car all summer; a permanent imprint matching my butt¬†can be found on the driver’s seat. Uber is my new name. My husband’s too…we share this awesome moniker. At least that’s what my sixteen year-old son believes. Apparently his father and I are running a car service for him. For free.

I drop him off at the baseball camp that he’s helping out at the other¬†morning and he frowns as he glances around the parking lot.

“I’m the first one here,” he tells me.

“There’s people here, ” I point out. There are girls on the soccer field and boys on the football field.

“Not for baseball camp though. I’m the first one for baseball camp.”

“Yeah, okay, that’s good, right?” I say, really confused. Usually he is rushing me out of the house because he’s paranoid about being late. Even though he’s never been late in his entire life. Okay, maybe once he was late when his sister threw herself on the floor and refused to move unless we gave her a cookie or something, but generally,¬†he is never late.

“No. I don’t want to be¬†this early.”

I look at the clock and see that it’s 8:15. He needs to be at the field by 8:30. He’s not ridiculously early. And I have a doctor’s appointment 20 miles away at 9:00. An appointment I may not make it to if I allow him to stay in the car for another minute. “Oh well. Sorry,” I said, practically shoving him out of the car. The coach is there and besides, he’s sixteen, not six. He has a cell phone and the campus is crawling with students from other camps and sports teams. He’s not getting abducted—he just has to spend 15 minutes alone…the horror.

He grudgingly gets out of the car, but not before mentioning for the bazillionth time that the camp is over at 2:00 and there’s no need to wait for him to call to say the camp is over and I should be there at 2:00 because he was the last one picked up yesterday. I grip the steering wheel because I’m contemplating “bumping” him with the car and that would be bad. Beyond Bad Mommy Diaries bad. I drive away muttering under my breath, cursing him and his ungrateful teenage ‘tude.

It absolutely amazes me that not only are we bending over backwards to get him to where he needs to go (and ON TIME), he’s got the nerve to tell us how were supposed to be doing it. Instead of thanking us, he’s critiquing us. I remember walking home from track practice in high school or walking to work…MANY TIMES. Not once would I have berated my parents for not giving me a ride if it wasn’t convenient. I would be missing teeth right now if I had complained.

But not my spoiled boy…he seems to think rides to wherever he wants to go is his God given right as our offspring. In fact, for someone with no license or car, he makes an awful lot of plans, plans he expects us to partake in. He doesn’t seem to get that there are 3 other people in the house—3 other people that often have to change their schedules or not go out in order to accommodate¬†his schedule.

“I’m hanging out with my friends tonight,” he says to me in the car¬†as I pick him up from his umpiring job later on. I glance at the dashboard clock. It’s after 8:00 in the evening.

“Um, you are, are you?” This doesn’t bode well for me. Not one of his friends live in walking distance. In fact, his circle of friends literally extends the entire width of our township. It takes a good hour to collect or drop off the entire lot of them anywhere. Not that that stops them from actually walking here there and everywhere once they’re together. In fact, once when he was at one friend’s house (who lives 3 miles away), they walked as far as the McDonald’s that is a half a mile from our house—and then turned back to walk to the friend’s house to ask me to come pick him up!

“Yeah, we’re gonna go to the fair,” he tells me. I groan. The fair is on the other side of the world. Or at least, the other side of the township.

“How are you getting there?” I ask with a sinking feeling that I already know the answer to this question. This is the fourth night he’s been to the fair—I’m pretty sure this is going to go down a lot like the other nights.

“Can you take us?”

I sigh. I have no desire to play chauffeur tonight. I’m tired and cranky and there’s a glass of sangria in the fridge screaming out my name. A glass that I will have to neglect if I’m the uber of the evening. I’ve juggled multiple schedules to get him everywhere he needs to go several times this week already. I’m going to follow Nancy Reagan’s advice and just say no,¬†I decide. After all, who’s the parent?

“Nope,” I tell him with conviction that I don’t feel at all. I really have no reason to refuse to let him go other than the fact that I am feeling lazy and I would like to have an adult beverage. So yeah, worst bad mommy ever.

“What?!?!” he is appalled at my selfishness.

“No,” I repeat.

He then proceeds to confirm the fact that I am the worst mom ever by telling me so. I then tell him that he’s grounded and he can kiss my butt if he thinks I’m ever going to take him anywhere again. There are tears and threats and pissed off faces when we pull into the driveway.

“What’s his problem?” my¬†twelve year old asks as her brother storms past her to throw himself down on his bed, face in his disgusting-probably-hasn’t-been-washed-since-I-stopped-doing-his-laundry-two-years-ago pillow. This is her signature sulking method and she wants to know if he’s justified in ripping off her practically trademarked move.

I explain to her that he expects me to be his servant and shuttle him all over God’s creation at the drop of the hat. I mutter that I am counting down the days till his seventeenth birthday (367…)¬†My daughter¬†shrugs as she watches me angrily pour my drink¬†and then says, “Why don’t you just get him an uber?”

I stare at her for a second, considering her suggestion. She may actually be on to something. His birthday is coming up…does uber have gift cards?