Summertime When You’re NOT in the Trenches
Typically, I dread summer.
It’s the most miserable season, and there’s no point trying to convince me otherwise. Heat index in the triple digits? Humidity at a billion percent? No thanks. Then there’s the puzzle of trying to figure out what combination of summer camps is going to best suit my family, pieced together with the logistics of a mad scientist trying to carefully keep their experiment from exploding. This puzzle starts well before summer does, and even if I manage to build something doable, pieces fall apart the closer we get to summer, and I’m always still scrambling for childcare options. Alternatively, when parts of this carefully assembled plan don’t work out, I myself don’t work.
Usually, my organization’s biggest event takes place in July, and the weeks leading up to it often find me frantic, stressed, and working odd hours trying to get everything done on time. Then, because the work stress isn’t enough, I feel guilty for constantly having my kids in camp and not giving them a relaxing, carefree summer at home.
But this summer, something happened with my work schedule. Our annual event is taking a break while we restructure the format, so I’m not as tunnel visioned on work this summer. We had a conflict with swim lesson scheduling that meant my kids wound up having about three weeks of free time before camp started, and because I suddenly had more free time in my work schedule, I got to spend it with them. We rode bikes, went to the library, went to the playground, fit an extra day into our long beach weekend, and had a more relaxed start to the summer than we’ve ever had.
It’s not the “90s summer” that I keep seeing touted on social media, but it gave me a sense for what summer could be like if I didn’t always feel like I was in the trenches. Someone also reminded me that summer will always get easier, in a sense, because my kids get older each year. It’s not ever going to be as hard as it was the year before, because with age comes more independence. My oldest two sons can swim independently now, and my youngest is right around the corner. My youngest is four now, almost five– we don’t have to worry about nap time anymore. I’m not at home with a baby or toddler anymore, trying to work in between tantrums, dragging an infant carrier around to pick up older siblings from camp. I’m finally able to push summer bedtime back and not worry so much about them not getting enough sleep and being cranky the next day.
This has meant that we take more walks, get more snowballs, watch more movies, and generally have more fun in the evenings than we ever have before. I used to beg other moms to tell me when summer would get easier, when I wouldn’t feel completely suffocated by work and childcare issues or the plague of figuring out summer camp logistics. They all promised me it would come one day. And now, I finally feel able to loosen the reins a little, to relax a little, and to embrace summer… a little. (I could still do without the heat and humidity.)
Is everything perfect? No, my kids and I all love the routine and structure that school brings. One of my kids would prefer to not ever go to camp again and spend summer in our house, alternating between reading and complaining. One of my kids would prefer me to be his fully dedicated personal entertainment. One of my kids wants to live outside, and I’m trying to find the right balance between letting him live his best life and preventing heatstroke. We still argue, we still wind up with overtired, cranky kids. I still breathed a big sigh of relief when camp started. I still yearn for August and the return to normalcy. But for the first time since having kids… I can see why some people love summer. No, I don’t love it, but maybe I don’t hate it anymore.
