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As parents, we are all bound together with common hopes, dreams, and experiences we have had with our children. There is one experience we have all shared that is life altering beyond words. It produces feelings of anxiety, helplessness, hopelessness, and inadequacy for even the most seasoned parents. I am of course referring to children’s birthday parties. The planning and execution of a kid’s birthday party is right up there with the Presidential Inaugural Ball. Where will we have this party, who should we invite, what should I wear, wait, they’re asking for how much to rent that place for an hour?! These are all questions party planning parents ask themselves daily. I’m here to help you with a very specific party detail: the party favor bag. We all know what it is. We’ve either filled one ourselves with toys and trinkets to show our appreciation to those children attending our child’s party, or our own child has received one from a party he/she has attended. I am breaking it down for you in no uncertain terms. These are the five things you must NEVER put in a party favor bag:
1) A whistle. If you find yourself at the store contemplating whether to include a whistle as a parting gift for the birthday party attendees, here’s what you do: Put the whistle down, back away slowly, and pretend you never saw it. Why? Every parent who attended your kid’s party will hate you at 6 a.m. the next morning when their child decides to blow into that shit as loudly as possible, waking up babies and cats. Unless you want retaliation in the form of a bullhorn and cowbell at the next party YOU attend, I suggest you leave that whistle on the store shelf where it belongs.
2)A yo-yo. Here’s why: “Hey, Mom, watch this! Watch this trick I can do! Mom, watch! Are you watching? MOM! WATCH!” I’ve been watching for the last 15 minutes and the only trick I’ve seen is my kid getting his foot caught in the string. I will never get that time back thanks to that effing yo-yo you stuck in that bag. Thanks.
3) Those tiny ass rubber bouncy balls. I will spend the rest of the week moving furniture around trying to get the damn thing out from whatever nook or cranny it has rolled into. I will also curse your name each time I have to pick the ball up. Do you want me to swear at you? Of course not, so no tiny ass ball.
4) Sugar Pixie Stix, otherwise known as crack for kids. My kid will try to open it in the car and get it all over his clothes and the backseat while lapsing into a sugar coma. Do I want my kid looking like colorful crack? No, so leave the sugar at the store.
And last but not least,
5)Any living or breathing creature. I have never had this happen to me, but a friend of mine told me about a party she went to where her child received a homemade small plastic ant farm as a parting gift. If you send my kid home with an ant farm, I’m coming to your house and “accidentally” dropping it on your floor. Better hide your Pixie Stix.
I will be completely honest and say that I may have sent a child home with one of the above mentioned items at least once. Definitely not the ant farm or whistle though, so cut me some slack. So let’s make a deal: I will never send your child home with any of these items ever again if you agree to do the same. Agree?
If not, I got your cowbell and ant farm right here

This whole blogging thing is still fairly new to me so the four of you who are reading this will have to bear with me while I figure things out. I originally started this blog in order to write about my mother’s dementia and try to make sense of my life as her caretaker. I don’t know how much to post or share on this blog. I don’t want to scare people away, yet I want to be honest. I try to write all posts with a sense of humor, but sometimes things just aren’t funny. Again, bear with me and read at your own risk. I may lose a friend or two from all of my oversharing, but that’s life.
A little over two years ago, my mother started becoming more paranoid and almost manic. She started telling me that people were following her and telling her to move out of our house. She started talking to herself constantly. I spent June 18, 2014 (my birthday) listening to my mom talk to two people no one else could see. She told me it was a man and a woman, her two best friends. That day my mom talked to herself from 6 a.m until 11 p.m when she finally fell asleep. She also spent part of that day setting out plates for herself and her two friends. She poured them each a cup of coffee and offered them cookies. She completely ignored me, a real person, even telling me to leave so she could spend some time alone with the voices in her head. There were many days I would come home from work and my mom would be making dinner for her fake friends. “Dinner” was a cup of flour mixed with cold water because she kept forgetting what she wanted to make. Eventually, my husband and I took the dials off the stove for fear she would burn the house down.
During this time, I called every respectable psychiatrist in the city of Milwaukee. They either weren’t accepting new patients or weren’t accepting Medicare patients. My husband and I finally took my mom to the hospital ER. After a couple more months of tests and pure living hell, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Quite honestly, I believe my mom has dementia stemming from schizophrenia but since I don’t have a medical degree it’s been impossible to find a doctor willing to listen to me. I have learned more about mental illness and the medical field in the last two years than I ever thought possible. I have had to fight (not literally, of course) a couple different doctors to get my mom on the right medication. In the early stages of her illness, my mom was very abusive towards me: hitting me, swearing at me, telling me that the voices in her head told her I was a drug addict. There were days I wished I was a drug addict. Drugs would at least be an escape from the nightmare I was living in.
I pride myself on having a decent sense of humor. I try to find the lighter side of most situations because without humor there’s no hope. Sometimes I use humor as a defense mechanism. During this time, I became a mental patient as well. I was a basket case, trying to be a daughter, a mother, and a wife, failing miserably at all three. I wanted to help my mom because she deserved it. She put me before herself every day of her life before this illness took over. How could I possibly abandon her? This put a strain on my marriage like you wouldn’t believe, but somehow we made it through. Probably because my husband is amazing.
My mother has talked to bushes, walked into oncoming traffic, and tried to escape our house during her “wandering” phase. Luckily, this is mostly controlled now due to the medication she is on. The hardest part now is remembering the woman she used to be and seeing the woman she is. At least I can still enjoy her personality on the days it shines through. For that, I am grateful.

Its right around the corner: back to school time. For some parents, this is a joyous occasion. Although we loved spending time with the little tykes over the summer, we look forward to being able to pee without an audience. For others, well, we’re still looking forward to peeing alone, but this time of year is fraught with tears, kicks, and screams. This will be my third school year as a member of the second group of parents and I know that I’m not alone.
The year my son started 4 year old kindergarten will go down in history as the most exhausting year of my life. Some moms are snickering and saying, “Whatever, lady, just wait until he’s a teenager,” but let me explain. My husband and I were the lucky parents who didn’t need daycare because I was able to work from home. On the days I had to go into work, my mother-in-law watched my son and it was perfect. We were saving money and I was able to spend time with my child. In the back of my mind, I considered the fact that the start of school would be challenging on many levels. I knew my child might find it difficult to socialize with other kids and I knew there might be some separation anxiety as he navigated a totally different environment. I was not, however, prepared to go into an epic battle that would make Game of Thrones look like Sesame Street.
My husband and I picked out a school, registered our son, and prepared to drop him off for his first day of school ever. On the morning of his first day, my little one woke up with a bright smile. The smile stayed in place all the way to school and drop off was a success. I of course spent the entire day in a puddle of tears and nerves, jumping every time my phone rang because I was sure the school was calling to tell me my kid was hysterical and his teacher decided to quit her job because she just couldn’t take it anymore. I eventually picked my son up, he told me his day was great and I almost fainted with relief. This is sooooo easy!! He’s fine, he had a great day! Parenting is SOOO simple.
Day 2: I glided into my son’s bedroom, gently shook him awake and informed him that it was time for school in a way that would make Mary Poppins jealous. He opened his eyes, slowly sat up, and said, “What, you mean I have to go back?! NOOOOO! WAHH!” OMG, kid, WTF?! Of course you have to go back. You can’t stay here! I have to work and pee by myself!! This was all so magical yesterday! What happened? I then realized that dragging someone to a car “kicking and screaming” is not an expression. This became a way of life for me. Not once did anyone, ANYONE, tell me I might need a helmet for protection while attempting to get my kid in the car! I thought about buying his teacher a crowbar because that’s what the poor woman needed to pry him off of me! It was awful. So I asked for advice from teachers, friends, and colleagues,and here’s what I did:
1) Dragging the boy to the car every morning was not working for obvious reasons. I started putting little trinkets in his car seat as a surprise. A sticker, a penny, a small plastic toy. Anything to get his butt in that car. He did look forward to his car seat surprise every morning and that’s what I was banking on.
2) I used end of the week rewards. “If you can make it through this week, buddy, mommy will take you on a trip to Bali.” Bali to him is the Walmart toy section, but you get what I mean. An end of the week trip to a park or the pool at our gym was always a welcome treat if he could make it through the week without fussing.
3) I begged. My God, the begging I did. It was disgusting.
And last but not least,
4) I talked. So much talking. I talked to my son constantly about what it means to be a big boy going to school. I told him it’s ok if he missed me as I missed him too and I couldn’t wait to hear about his day when I picked him up. All true. Being away from your kid is tough and I shed plenty of my own tears during this time.
So. Did the tears stop flowing? Not completely, but things definitely improved over time. I’m forever grateful to everyone who gave me advice. There were tears at the start of five year old kindergarten but they didn’t last as long. This year the boy is starting first grade. I don’t know if he’ll cry, but I’m prepared to give him lots of love and support to help us BOTH get through the start of the school year.
I also plan on buying a helmet, just in case.

You are about to learn more about my life than you ever wanted to know. Please be forewarned. This is me trying to stop you from reading this. Don’t say I didn’t warn you or I’m not thinking about you. Ok? Still reading? Here we go…
Part of the reason I started this blog was to write about the experiences I have raising two kids. Yes, I have two. One just happens to be my 71 year old mother. My mother was officially diagnosed with dementia about 2 years ago. In lieu of placing her in a care facility, I have decided to do my best to care for her at home until it is no longer possible. I haven’t wanted to write about this because it is so damn difficult for me. My mother used to enjoy cooking, gardening, and cleaning the house to within an inch of its life. Cooking has now become dumping three cups of flour into the sink because she’s not sure what else to do. Gardening is dumping the soil out of a potted plant in the kitchen. Cleaning is moving dirty dishes around without using soap and water. My husband and I have taken every precaution to keep our home safe enough for her to wander around. We keep the knobs off the stove, anything dangerous high on a shelf so she’s not able to reach it, etc. My home consists of myself, my husband, my mother, my six year old son, and a dog. When I say that every day is special, I’m not kidding.
A typical day for me goes something like this: Anywhere between 2:30-4 a.m I’m up with my mom helping her use the bathroom. I’m usually in there just to make sure she washes her hands and keeps everything hygienic. I help her back to bed so she can sleep a bit more. Unfortunately, I usually am unable to. Every now and then I’ll lay back down, but I usually stay up because she’ll be using the bathroom again in an hour. If it’s a school day I’ll wake my son up at around 6 a.m. Then it happens like clockwork. Everyone in my house has to pee at 6 a.m. Why the hell does everyone have to pee at the same time when we only have one bathroom? I don’t know but here’s what happens: the boy and the Baba start fighting over who gets to pee first, then the dog starts barking because she has to pee also. Most days I’m so busy making sure everyone pees that I forget to go myself. If you ever see me in the morning and I look irritated, chances are that I have to use the bathroom and I’ve just forgotten. Please remind me if you want. Otherwise, just pray that I don’t wet myself during a work meeting or presentation. I’m extremely blessed my work schedule is flexible as it allows me to make sure my mom eats lunch. After lunch, I work some more, pick little one up from school, help him do his homework, make or warm dinner, help the boy and Baba shower, then kick a soccer ball until 6:30 when my husband gets home. Then I breathe a sigh of relief because there’s an adult present who seems like he knows what he’s doing. Lord knows I sure don’t.
Now comes the part where I answer all your questions: Am I crazy? Yes. Why haven’t I put my mom in a home yet? She is safe, she still knows her way around her home, and she still gets to see and play with her grandson. As soon as any of those things change, I know that I have a decision to make. Isn’t something suffering; your marriage, your son, your job? Possibly all three. My husband is a saint for what he puts up with. I’m sure there are days when my son would like to use the bathroom first. I expect to be fired every day. I constantly feel like I’m being pulled in 4 different directions. However, I don’t think that’s different from any other working mother. The situation may be different, but the feeling is the same. Do I ever think that I’m making a mistake? Every damn day.
There’s also this: My mom will not be here forever. The time I’m spending with her now is precious, even if I’m handing her toilet paper in the bathroom. My son has more empathy at the age of 6 than most adults I know. My heart melts every time he hands my mom her glasses and a magazine to look at. I don’t fully understand why my husband hasn’t run screaming out of our home, but I appreciate him and love him more every day. I wish I had more time to tell him this to his face. No matter how tired I am, there is always someone in a worse position than me. As crazy as things are, I am blessed with a wonderful family, especially a beautiful angel of a little boy. For this, I am beyond grateful.
Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a line forming outside of the bathroom. I’m needed elsewhere.

I remember feeling so alone when my son was a new-born. The majority of my friends at the time were either single without kids or married without kids. My husband and mother both did what they could to help me, but something was lacking. Especially for me, the new mom who never babysat another human being a day in her life before popping out this baby. Never changed a diaper, had no clue what to put in a diaper bag, was never responsible for another human. I would have failed any parenting test given to me. My mother tried to give me advice, but I’m an only child and she hadn’t been around a baby in 30 years. My friends without kids were great at being supportive, but there was only so much advice they could give me. And of course, the usual suspects were always willing to dispense the I-know-you-didn’t-ask-for-my-opinion-but-here-it-is-anyway advice. You know the type. I was constantly saying things like,”Yes,honey, I know you mean well but having three cats and a parakeet is NOT the same as having a child,I promise.” Or “Yes, boo, calling a cab instead of driving yourself home from the bar after puking three times was very responsible,but you still shouldn’t be handing out parenting advice,mmmkay?” I needed one thing: A Mom Friend. Searching for The Mom Friend was like searching for the Holy Grail. I needed an awesome friend who was going through/had gone through the same emotions I was feeling and the same experiences. She would be smart, funny, and brutally honest without being judgmental. Now I just had to find her! Where the hell is she?!

As my son has gotten older, I’ve been very lucky to meet the type of moms I’ve always wanted to be friends with. I’ve also met…..other moms. Very nice people. Great people. Really great. Just…well. Not very relatable. At least to me. These are the four types of mom I cannot relate to AT ALL:

1) Rainbows and Unicorns Mom. And puppies. And glitter. Lots and lots of glitter. She claims that her kids are ALWAYS well behaved because, by golly, why wouldn’t they be? Her kids get straight A’s, cook, clean, do their chores without being asked, and NEVER fight. They volunteer at soup kitchens! They donate their toys to the less fortunate! They shit gerbera daisies and peonies! They. Are. Amazing!! You’ve never seen them do any of this, of course, and you could swear you just saw little Jessica pull little Vicki’s hair as hard as possible, but no. Rainbows and Unicorns mom assures you that they are angels. And maybe they are. I cannot relate to this type of mom because I would rather talk to her the day her kids stop pooping out flowers and rainbows. Or the day she finally withdraws from the drugs, sorry I meant MAGIC, she’s been ingesting. Basically, I would rather talk to her when she becomes a real person.
2)Pinterest Mom. You walk into her house and she’s made origami figurines out of toilet paper. She makes her own soap, laundry detergent, and floor wax. I can’t relate to her because I woke up this morning. That’s it. End of list. That’s all I’ve done with my life. God Bless you, Pinterest Mom. You’re free to come over to my house and spruce things up any time.
3) Always Put Together Mom. This one has four kids, two dogs, a cat, and a gerbil and still manages to look like she stepped off the cover of Vogue Magazine. Never a hair out of place. Makeup doesn’t run. Immaculate. I can’t relate to her because I can’t believe she’s a real person. And I’m pretty sure she’s on the same “MAGIC” as Rainbows and Unicorns mom.
And finally:
4) Competitive Mom. You tell her you’ve started a new workout regime: She did it last year. You tell her your kid just started reading: Hers is writing a novel. Your kid won his first track meet: Hers just made the Olympic team. At a certain point you can’t help but wonder: Are your kids really this amazing, or are you pushing them to their breaking point? Have you really done it all or are you just a big ‘ol mess who constantly needs to prove herself? Either way, I can’t relate to you. Bye, Felicia.

I thank God every day that my friends know nothing about unicorns, buy soap from the store, and don’t always have time to dress to impress. Best of all, we support one another. Because that’s what friends do

There was a time back B.C. (Before Child) when I actually thought exercise and staying in shape were somewhat important. Like many women, I’ve always struggled with my weight and self image. I spent most of my school years overweight until I finally got my stuff together upon graduating college and slowly began eating healthier food and working out. I was NEVER what you would call skinny, even at my lowest weight, but still. I felt good about myself and that was all that mattered.
Then one day I found out I was pregnant. Naturally, I gained weight. After my beautiful boy was born, of course I told myself I would go back to eating healthy food and exercising. Of course I didn’t. My life revolved around raising the little one so my health was the last thing on my mind. When my mom was diagnosed with dementia a few years later and I took on the challenge of caring for her at home, my free time dwindled even further. From 2010-2015 I could probably count the number of times I worked out on one hand.
I work as a news research assistant so in October of 2015 I received word that my new assignment would involve health and trying out different exercise programs. I was so excited because I knew this is exactly what I needed to jumpstart my workout motivation. As I listened to my boss list all the classes I’d be required to take, he suddenly stopped mid sentence and said, ” Hey! Have you ever been to a bar class?” Um, no, but sign me up. I’m not sure what drinking in a bar has to do with health and fitness, but who was I to question my boss? If he wants me to drink, then that’s what I’ll do. This is my job! I have a very strong work ethic.
When I asked him what I would be drinking, he laughed and laughed. And laughed. Then he explained that it was actually a “barre” class. Ballet? I was horrified. I immediately started making plans to head to a bar before the barre. That was the only way this was going to work.
A couple weeks later I was ready to take my first class. I watched a couple of YouTube videos, so I figured I was set. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but how bad could this be? I didn’t see anyone doing burpees.  Burpees are the work of Satan, so anything else I could handle.
Or so I thought. Here are five things you should know before taking your first barre class:
1) You will meet your instructor and be bowled over by how sweet she is. Then the music will start and you’ll wonder who the hell replaced your sweet instructor with the mean one telling you to “lift this, tuck that, remember why you’re here, hold yourself accountable, fix your posture, and you can do anything for 30 seconds!” I am letting you know right now: There are definitely some things you cannot do for thirty seconds.
2) Everyone who walks into that room looks like an effing supermodel. Ok, maybe not everyone, but close enough. Naomi Campbell will be on your left, Gisele Bundchen on your right. My first month going to barre I would sit on the floor before class started pretending to stretch but really bargaining with God: Please let the next person who walks in here be someone who eats. This is Wisconsin! C’mon, please! One day I was thrilled to see a woman walk in who actually looked like she had eaten a sandwich in the last week. Upon closer inspection, I realized she was pregnant. What the hell, that doesn’t count! She should be at home eating! Isn’t that what we all do when we’re pregnant? Way to make us all look bad, pregnant lady.
3) About halfway through the class, the instructor will tell you to “slide into your best split.” This is not a joke. You will look around and realize that everyone in that room is a gymnast. Except for you. You do whatever you need to do during this time. Fake it til you make it. It’ll all be over soon, I promise.
4) Nobody in this class sweats because they are all superhuman robots. If you keep telling yourself this, you’ll feel better about being the only one who does. Well, no, you won’t feel better. But you’ll chuckle a little.
5) The shaking. Can we talk about the shaking? Apparently this is your goal. Instructors will actually yell out ” Great shake!” when you’re in the middle of what feels like a grand mal seizure while doing one of the barre exercises. You won’t be able to walk straight for the rest of the day. Good luck.
So. After reading all this you’re probably congratulating me on finishing my assignment and leaving that place as quickly as possible. Actually, I’m still going. Here’s why: It doesn’t matter if you’re not a thin supermodel. It doesn’t matter if everyone else is. You’re not there for everyone else. You’re there for you. It’s pretty amazing when you start seeing changes in your body and feel yourself getting stronger. So there are worse things than being in a room full of supermodels. Embrace the shake

Dear Sir,

---

About a month ago, your son Bill (*not his real name*) and mine spent some time playing soccer together after school.  My son was SO excited because he rarely gets to play with Bill and this was a special treat for him. I do not know you or your son very well, but my child speaks of him often.  The kids were having a blast and I thought it was great until you turned to me and said, “Wow! I can’t believe your kid can kick a soccer ball like that! I mean, look at him! He’s the size of a fly!” Then you laughed at your own stupid joke. You were too big of a prick to notice that you were the only one laughing. Then you decided to be extra classy and add, “Eh  Well. Hopefully he’ll grow for ya, hey?” I wasn’t raised in the same barn that you apparently were raised in, so I believe I mumbled something along the lines of, “My kid is perfect the way he is, blah,blah.” Then I looked to my left and noticed my son had stopped kicking the soccer ball (which never happens so I assumed there was a state of emergency) and was listening to our entire exchange. He heard you.  He heard everything. My kid knows he’s small but it has never affected him. We have dealt with his size from the day he was born and here is what you should know:

My son was 7 pounds 1 ounce when he was born. Totally normal size for a baby, yet he looked so much smaller than the others in the nursery. He just didn’t have those pudgy baby legs and chunky baby rolls that we’re all accustomed to seeing. Clean bill of health, wasn’t born premature. Lost a bit of weight while in hospital but gained it back at home. Our first couple of doctor’s visits post hospital were fantastic. At his three month checkup, the doctor mentioned that my son wasn’t gaining as much weight as he should be. At six months, my son was perfect developmentally, doing all the things a six month old is supposed to be doing. However, his weight gain was minimal and the doctor was not pleased. We told her we have no concerns about our child developmentally and is it possible he’s just small? She told us to quote, “give him a stick of butter over the holidays because his weight is going down the toilet!” Needless to say, we never saw her again and I often wonder if her medical degree has been flushed down the toilet as well. I sure hope so.

So we switched doctors. The new doctor ran test after test after test after test. All tests came back negative but still more tests were ordered. Throughout this entire ordeal, my husband and I continuously repeated, “He’s just small!” The first two years of my child’s life, instead of enjoying my time with him, I worried myself SICK. I was so depressed I couldn’t function. I saw my child every day and thought he was perfect, but everyone I met with a white jacket and stethoscope was telling me otherwise even though they had no proof of any abnormality existing. Somewhere in my perfectly healthy little boy’s medical chart is a diagnosis of “failure to thrive.” He never failed to thrive. Ever. His doctors just failed to listen. My son was about 26 months old when I finally had enough. Enough with the tests, enough with the doctors. My son was fine and I told my husband if my son’s doctor ordered one more test I was calling bullshit and switching doctors yet again. I could hardly breathe at this checkup waiting for the verdict. The doctor looked up from his paperwork, smiled, and said, “Hey, you know what? I think the kid is just small!!!” No shit, Sherlock. Medcal degrees are clearly easy to obtain. I should have been a doctor. Luckily, my child finally now has a doctor who understands he’s.  Just.  Small.

So you see, sir, why I’m a tad sensitive about my kid’s size, even though he isn’t. Also, you are an adult. Children hear every word we say, even if they pretend not to. So your snide remarks and mocking really isn’t appropriate. My kid is perfect. So is yours for that matter. My kid may be small his entire life and that is perfectly fine. The worst that could happen is that he won’t be able to shop in the Big and Tall section like you do ( yeah, I went there.) Watch your mouth around kids and back off. Pick on someone your own size because there’s nothing more disgusting than an adult bully.

Signed, Me

 

 

 

 

 

School’s are closed, local pools are open, and summer is finally here. And so are our kids. Every. Single. Day. All day. At home, in our faces, no schoolwork to keep them busy. Like many parents, my hubby and I sat down about a month ago and talked about what we should do over the summer to keep our six year old son occupied. In an effort to save money and since I’m lucky enough to be able to work from home, we decided no day cares or rec programs. We will make sure the little tyke is happy and having fun at home. We’ll do art projects! Crafts! I will find ways of keeping the boy busy so I can still get some work done. I will create a list of inexpensive activities that will last us all summer long. I can do this!! I. Am. Awesome.
Now June is here and I’m wondering what the hell I was thinking. I’ve been scouring the Internet in a panic and waking up in a cold sweat because I’ve finally realized this is all on me. There will be no teacher assigned homework. Teachers are off during the summer. Teachers don’t make house calls (wait, do they? Please tell me they do!) Keeping my son busy is my task and mine alone. I counted on my friend Google to help me find ways of keeping the boy occupied. I forgot that Google and the awesome parents of the internet do not know my child. My son is obsessed (I’m talking Glen Close, boiling bunnies, Fatal Attraction, OBSESSED) with soccer. If he is not kicking a ball he’s…well, then I’m not sure what he’s doing because he’s ALWAYS kicking a ball. So the activity suggestions I found…well, let’s take a look:
1) Plan an outdoor scavenger hunt/hide-and-seek mission! Yeah, only if I’m able to hide that damn soccer ball and buy myself some time away from kicking it.
2) Have your child write poems and read them to you! Also known as good effing luck getting my kid to pick up a pencil this summer.
3) Play board games together! The people who suggested this have never met my kid. He makes up his own damn rules and cries if he’s losing. Hell, he cries if he’s winning!
4) Make your favorite ice cold drink together! Really? Make margaritas with the 6 year old? Actually, this one might be doable. If I’m caught, spending some time napping in a jail cell might be a nice break.
5) Mail handmade cards to family and friends! Mine will be the one with HELP ME! written on the front.
6) Create art! I swear to God, I just heard my kid roll his eyes. Yes, eye-rolling makes a sound.
7) Play some game I’ve never heard of called paddle pong! This will slowly turn into chase mom around the house with the paddle until she cries.
8) Play school together because a small part of your child is surely missing his classroom. Can’t I just drop him off there? Someone has to be there, right? A janitor? Anyone? Help!
9) Tie dye t-shirts! Do people seriously still do this? In 2016? Why?!
And my personal favorite:
10) Invite your child’s friends over, give them each a shovel and have them dig for treasures in your backyard! If 10 six year old boys show up at my front door with shovels, I will find the person who suggested this activity and personally escort my son and his friends to their home. I will sit on their porch with my homemade margarita and watch the destruction.
Honestly, these are all fantastic suggestions (except for the shovel thing…WTF?) Bottom line: We all love our children. We would die for them. We love spending time with them. But thinking about a long hot summer with nothing but time on our hands is terrifying. I won’t throw away our summer to-do list yet, but I won’t sweat it either. Beautiful memories don’t come from a list. The boy won’t be six forever. What seems like a long summer now will fly by in an instant. So this summer I will take a deep breath and enjoy every single precious moment with that little man before he grows up to be a big man.
If you need to find me this summer, I’ll be the one standing in front of the soccer goal. All. Summer. Long.