Summertime Sadness

I went over to a friend’s house today with the kids. She has a beautiful home with a pool in the backyard and it’s all really lovely and clean and neat and I couldn’t help but feel like a big awkward loser lump by the time the hanging out was over. Not because she has two wonderful children and a husband who travels for work and is therefore not always around meddling, not because she is thinner than me or can get her hair perfectly straight. Not because seriously, her house is gorgeous and she has interests that she pursues and she can speak Hebrew and she is going to Hawaii in a few weeks. No, the reason I feel like a total turd when I compare myself to her is this:

She knows how to say no to her kids.

We sat talking while the kids played in the pool. Her teenaged son decided he was hungry and came up to the porch. He politely asked for some chips and guacamole. He even used the word please. And his mom said, “No.” She made it look so easy. He didn’t argue; he just walked back to the pool and jumped in.

It was the most amazing thing I have ever seen.

A little while later, when the urge for chips and guacamole didn’t let up, he did try again, and this time, she said, “You can have salsa.” He went in the house to get the bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa, and then he asked everyone if they would like to join him in a little nosh. No one did. He seemed a little saddened by it, but decided he would go ahead with satisfying his craving. My friend advised him to get a bowl for the salsa, then instructed him on the need for a napkin to clean up any spillage. She gently chided him when his salsa dipping threatened her clean white shirt. He didn’t roll his eyes at her or make some snide remark. He just did what she said and quietly ate his snack.

Never once did she get out of her seat. Her thirteen year old child was able to help himself, to eat, to clean up his mess, and to put away the food.

It was the second most amazing thing I have ever seen.

You see, I have this bad habit in the summertime. I don’t exactly hover over my daughters, but I do forget that I can say no. I also forget that they are capable of doing way more for themselves than they care to. So when one of them requests her scrambled eggs fluffier, the eggs are fluffier. If one of them only wants to do the 9:30 gym class she likes instead of the 8:30 one I like, then guess what time we get at the gym? Let me give you a hint; it’s not 8:25.

I actually spent twenty minutes trying to find a solution to the milk problem today. The teen wanted a bowl of cocoa crispies. The whole milk was too fatty. The almond milk was too watery. The one percent milk expired three days ago, so she couldn’t use that, mostly because neither of us was willing to do the sniff test. She insisted she would just choke down the cereal dry because we didn’t have the right kind of milk. After that, I spent another twenty minutes trying to understand why I wasted the first twenty minutes giving a shit about milk and also, why do we have so many dairy and non- dairy options?

What I’m trying to say is, it’s about halfway through the summer, and I have turned into a mushy pile of mom. I have lost what little spine I have. I am officially a pushover.

Do you remember when your kids were little and started talking, and you were so excited to understand what they said that you forgot you didn’t have to do what they said? I had a period of time like that with each of mine. I could finally make out sentences, such a major step up from screaming and crying and pointing and grunting. It turned out, when I finally stopped to think about what was going on, that they were just issuing constant demands to which I acquiesced, almost like negotiating with terrorists who don’t speak my language.  All I thought was, yea! I can understand you!  I should have been thinking, I liked you better when I didn’t know what a demanding prick you were.

I just found a wet beach towel draped over a chair in the kitchen, and I didn’t even yell at anyone. What is happening to me?

I would love to spend some time examining why I become a children’s doormat every July, but that kind of self-reflection takes energy I no longer have. Because in addition to waiting on my kids like some underpaid hotel server, I also fall into the trap that I don’t have to do anything either. I keep forgetting that I am not on summer vacation. Adults don’t get a summer break. People who work outside of the home are well aware of this fact, and every summer they scramble to find activities or child care to fill the hours normally occupied by school. Stay at home moms, on the other hand, find that those few precious moments of solitude are gone, not to be seen again for almost three months.  It’s more than a little disorienting.

When my daughters were young, I didn’t want them to get bored at home with me, so I planned all sorts of summer fun. I called it Camp Mom, and while I found it exhausting, it was still educational and magical and stimulating and all those things that you want summer to be with your kids. Now, they are both basically teenagers. They want to sleep late. They want to sit in their rooms and text and watch Netflix, until you decide you need to go somewhere or do something. Then they need to you drive them to so and so’s house or take them to the store for more maxi pads or figure out the milk problem. Naptime is still inconsistent, and the magic is gone. No, they don’t want to try a new kind of food or learn about a different country or go to a museum. They don’t want to go swimming for the same reason you don’t; it’s too hot outside and it messes up their hair.  They are too old for day camp and the free ten o’clock movie and too young for jobs and driving.

Question: when does school start?

Answer (from every mom): Not soon enough.

Somehow, my friend hasn’t given in to the summertime blues. She has maintained her personhood. I want to be like her. Maybe I will get that right by next summer.