Awkward Mom vs. Spring Break Flu

If August causes Summer Fever, then mid-March causes Spring Break Flu. August Expectations bring March Fevers, something like that...

Much like the Spanish Flu, Spring Break Flu is an epidemic of catastrophic proportions. It develops very quickly, is extremely powerful, spreads like a wildfire (mostly via Instagram), and is violently dangerous toward any and all expectations. Spring Break Flu craves your expectations with the hunger of 1000 teenagers after a swim meet, and it will obliterate them like a swarm of locusts. It isn't quite at Birthday Botulism or Wedding Plague levels, but, still, I wouldn't go leaving any expectations just laying around if Spring Break Flu is visiting your house.

I'm sure I've addressed Expectations before, but, just to remind everyone, Expectations is major villain in the Awkward Universe. He is a Big Baddie; Dr. Doom, Kingpin, Apocalypse (comicverse, not movieverse, obviously), Green Goblin, General Zod. You get the picture; this is Boss Level stuff. (P.S. All those links are fantastic, but Kingpin in those purple pants has got it going on like Donkey Kong.) Expectations is NOT a villain to trifle with, and yet, it is unbelievable how many of us just toy with him, expecting that everything will work out fine. (Ugh, is she gonna keep doing that? Yeah, I expect so.)

Here's how my Spring Break Flu is going this week. Expect to be horrified.

Monday. 

The only really planned event of the week was set for today. From previous battles with Expectations, I have learned over time, so I only planned one travel-based event this Spring Break. I have clearly not learned enough.

Some backstory: Super Oldest has a birthday at the end of February and all he wanted this year was to go to the Field Museum. So, we carefully planned and were all set to go to Chicago the day after his birthday, which was the day I got diagnosed with strep throat.

That plan scrapped, we carefully planned and were all set to go to Chicago the first day of Spring Break, which was the day Super Daughter got diagnosed with the stomach flu.

And by diagnosed, I mean, threw up on me at 2am. But I wasn't gonna let that deter me; I carefully dressed her, cajoled her, begged her, bribed her, and fed her sips of water from 6am-8am in an effort to show that she just ate something weird and was not, in fact, battling Stomach Flu. At 8:05am, she threw up on me again, and I was forced to admit that she would not be able to make the trip to Chicago. This left us with many options, none of them good. (1) Reschedule again, (2) scrap the whole idea, or (3) one of us take some of the children. We opted for option 3 and I was chosen to go, mostly since Awkward Dad has more medical experience and I have more experience driving in Chicago, plus marginally more self-control in gift shops. So, I gathered up all 3 Super Boys, our packed lunch, the pass to our local museum (which has a reciprocity program with the Field and you should check your local museum out for this too, Frugal Fans!), and what remained of my confidence, which wasn't a lot.

Going into the Field Museum, I had no remaining reserves against Expectations. I thought that, without Awkward Dad's boundless and often foolish enthusiasm, we would last 2 hours at the most, and I braced for a lot of fighting about which exhibits to see, a lot of whining about being tired, and a lot of demands for museum food and gift shop toys.

 Gotta love a good foreshadowing shadow.

None of that happened. Much like a Tyrannosaurs-Rex, Expectations can smell fear and foolish pride. I had none left, so Expectations left me alone to go bother a rather sweet looking family from Ohio. Their toddler broke a shoe, their 8-year-old had a melt-down over Legos, and they didn't make it past 3pm, poor loves. The Supers and I, on the other hand, rambled where the wind took us and had a happy afternoon, mostly lost in the Hall of Animals, watching art students sketch. It was utterly magical, especially the part where I told Awkward Dad not to expect anything from the gift shop and then totally bought him a book.

Tuesday.

Tired from yesterday, all I expected to do was to clean the play room, which has sorely needed it for 4 weeks. Months. Can't be 4 years, we've only been in this house 3 and a half. OK, maybe 3 and a half.... But I was confident that I could clean one room in one day. Totally doable.

Totally not doable.

Super Daughter, while not actively throwing up, was still weak and in need of snacks, Gatorade, and attention. As was Super Baby, who has learned to open the pantry to get her own snacks and Gatorade, but still sorely requires attention, as she isn't quite as skilled at getting said snacks and Gatorade into her mouth. Therefore, this required about 7 kitchen floor cleans by the end of the day. And then Awkward Dad came home early, slipped on the clean (and wet) kitchen floor, and therefore did not make it all the way to the bathroom before throwing up. I never should have told the children that I expected them to share...

I gave up expecting to clean the play room and sat on a pile of toys in there and cried, in-between floor cleanings and fetching buckets.

Wednesday.

Have you ever had stir-crazy children and a man-sick spouse in your house at the same time? I didn't expect to survive Wednesday at all.

I did survive. So, that's nice. I guess. 

Thursday.

Awkward Dad, not quite well but no longer actively vomiting on the kitchen floor, headed back to work. The children all seemed healthy enough, so I allowed a playdate with some neighbor kids, expecting this to have a calming effect on the children. Yeah, about that...

So, during a particularly important moment during Wii Bowling, Super 2nd-Grader bowled a solid strike, which would have been awesome, if the Wii control hadn't flown off his wrist and also landed a solid strike, right in the middle of the TV.

Strike! 

It's certainly not a spare...

The next 3 hours are a bit of a blur, I think Expectations got in a few head-shots and I expect I have a head injury. Super 2nd-Grader, expecting that Awkward Dad was going to kill him, locked himself in a closet. The neighbor kids vanished (nice super powers there, guys!), and the Supers were suddenly incredibly focused on cleaning the aforementioned play room. I do remember contacting Awkward Dad at work so that he could talk Super 2nd-Grader out of the closet, but after that, I sorta collapsed on the my bed and that's where Awkward Dad found me, cuddling a sleeping Super Baby and mumbling about bowling expectations.

He took Super Baby, tucked me in, took the kids out for take-out (which I had expected us to give up for Lent), and told me that he fully expected me to do nothing on Friday, except attend my therapy session. He even offered to change his spring break expectation to visit a friend over the weekend, in light of current illnesses and a suspicious coughing from Super 2nd-Grader.

Friday. 

Super 2nd Grader has been vomiting since this morning, so I blew off every expectation I had for today to write to you all. Now, I expect....No, not expect. I don't expect anything.

I AM going to read and eat Thin Mints until my therapy session this afternoon.

I like to pre-therapy for therapy.

Expectations has not left the house. I have mom-hearing and I can hear him cackling in the corners right now. He's a major villain and here for the long haul. I lose a lot of battles with him, but I will win the war. I AM going to win the war. I have support, awareness, and enough Girl Scout cookies to defend my heart until the end of time. I will beat him someday. Spring Break Flu is not a major villain and will leave soon. However, I do not expect that until probably midnight on Sunday night.

At which point, I fully expect to catch a Book Fair Cold...

Awkward Mom vs. Reboots

If my obsessive comic book reading has taught me one thing, it has taught me this: never ever plan a vacation to the Savage Land.

OK, I suppose, comic books have taught me many things, but here's the most important one: you can always reboot. You can always begin again and you can always start over. Adapt, alter, relaunch, blame it on Skrulls. Change it all; your story arc, your powers, your computer, pretty much anything goes in the comics. Captain Marvel is now a woman. How many Spidermans are there? The X-men change teams pretty much every issue. And don't even get me started on movieverse vs canon vs that weird mutant ninja turtle fan fiction some guy your cousin knows is writing. Everything is a playground of fresh starts and new eyes, just gotta get something down on the page.

So, what's my point? Am I gearing up for some massive change to this blog? Am I going to vlog makeup tutorials like a millennial? Am I prepping you for the unveiling of my gothic steampunk My Little Pony fan fiction? (You know you want to see that.) No, no, nothing so ambitious. I am merely returning to the beginning of the story. Well, not really. Rather the story as it stands now. We're just gonna start right here and now because no one has time to go back to the beginning.

Anyway, right now has doughnuts. 

I'm rebooting this blog because it's time. It's time because sometimes superheroes stop telling their stories for a little bit. They don't stop living their stories, but maybe it's time for a quick time-out in the action. You know, a pause to study with a shaman in Tibet or backpack across the US or a quick trip to another dimension or maybe a move to a new place and another baby and so you kinda lose yourself in the daily minutiae of raising 5 kids and not drowning in laundry and making new mom friends and way over-committing at the school and then getting super sick all the time because of total lack of self-care and then you turn 40 and wonder who you are as a person not just as a mother  and have a massive existential crisis and get depressed and then get back into therapy and decide to start writing again because well you aren't sure but maybe it will bring the joy back. I mean, you know, hypothetically.

So, let's get started, no need for origin stories, right? You know how superherohood/parenthood works; flailing about a lot in lots of green slime with some screaming. Caught up? Cool.

Today is Thursday. It's a normal March Thursday, meaning we are sick to death of winter and also sick to death in general. I am home today but I shouldn't be. (Should and Shouldn't still reign as Awkward Mom's biggest nemeses.) I just finished helping with the school play and am launching into the Book Fair. I am also Cookie Mom for Super Daughter's Girl Scout Troop because Saying No and I have been fighting a lot lately. She's winning.

Super Oldest also has trouble saying no. 

Super Oldest is currently at school; taking advanced math, excelling in every subject, playing clarinet, singing in the choir, acting in the school play, practicing his ballet, tap, and jazz moves, reading about Greek mythology, and winning a war on the school's recycle policy by getting them to add plastics and metal. 

He did all of that today. 

Super 2nd Grader is winning his war on no shirts. 

Super 2nd grader is currently on the couch; he threw up 6 times last night and is the reason we are home today instead of setting up the Book Fair. He is surrounded by 3 imaginary friends and they are having an animated conversation about a future trip to Mars. He has refused all offers of Gatorade and toast, saying that Invisible Grandpa gave him "a brew of herbs from the past." 

Sounds magically delicious. 

Super Daughter has zero trouble saying no. 

Super Daughter is at school and she may be principal by now, things seemed to be heading that way last night when she breezed through her homework, her brother's homework, and some of Awkward Dad's medical notes that were on the kitchen table. I'll pick her up around 3, take her to her scout meeting, softball practice, and perhaps the UN to broker peace in the Middle East. We'll see where the evening take us.

The evening usually take us wherever Super Daughter wants to go. 

Super Preschooler doesn't fight with No or Yes, he just abstains.

Courteously. 

Super Preschooler brought down a collection of trucks and cars to entertain Super 2nd Grader. That Super 2nd Grader would throw them across the room because they were "bothering Borgee," isn't something that could have been predicted. I guess Imaginary Spiders aren't into vehicles. 

Super Preschooler wasn't bothered. Not much bothers Super Preschooler. 

He just moved his vehicles to a different room and is now developing a colony of diggers that he calls "the Land of Excavators." 

We won't see him for the rest of the day. 

Super Baby doesn't say much, but she can say no. 

Super Baby is in nap prison after I caught her playing in the downstairs toilet. She was extremely distressed to be removed from her game of splashing her hands, and a nearby (entire!) roll of toilet paper, into this fun bowl of water she found, exactly at the right height, now that she can pull up. I cleaned her but haven't attempted the bathroom. That can wait until later, along with the mess of strawberries she used to color on the kitchen walls, the cereal that she threw all over the den, and the puddle of mysterious origins that has sprung up in the dining room. It can all wait. 

Everything can wait while I admire those apple cheeks. 

That's what's going on here. I mean, along with the laundry and dishes and wishes and garbage and disappointments and dreams and sheets that need to be washed and too many toys and cat vomit and fights with friends and concerns that life is passing too quickly but why won't bedtime come faster and maybe we could afford a trip to the Savage Land you know if we stopped eating out all the time and really buckled down and I guess I better make lunch because I don't think Invisible Grandpa brought past-brews for everyone. 

Nice to see you again, Readers!

Tune in next week;

It's Spring Break and, since we aren't going to the Savage Land, 

I'm sure there will be loads of home adventures for me to awkward up! 

Awkward Mom vs. Table-Standing Daughters

We’re 5 years later now and she keeps finding taller tables. Higher and higher; ever fearless, her body is slowly catching up to her soul but it’s hungry. She’s never done, never over or finished. For her spirit is an entire universe. She dances like the music comes from her very heart. She reads like written language was created just for her; delighted eyes dancing over the pages, journal nearby when inspiration strikes. She eats like a farm hand, she learns like a sponge. She gives herself away constantly; there’s simply so much of her, her fountain of gifts never runs dry. I can’t contain her. Why would I want to? I feel for Cleopatra’s mother; power this strong does not develop slowly, it explodes and you try desperately to keep it out of the road. You can not steer rockets, you can merely point them in the right direction and pray. She is my prayer. My prayer for the world and all in it.

Awkward Mom vs. Back to School

We here in the land of Awkward start school in 2 days. My friends in Michigan have to wait 2 more weeks. My friends in Indiana started 2 weeks ago. My homeschooler friends never stopped. The empty nester friends are going back themselves. Lotta different ways to school, but, however, whenever, and wherever you school, this is for you. 

Hey, Mom with the prefect first day of school Instagram pictures complete with chalkboard and autumnal filter; fabulous, keep being you!

Hey, Mom whose child got a tardy the first day, head high, you’ve got this!

Hey, Dads who pack Bento Boxes with the sandwich cut into a lion, beautiful work!

Hey, Parents whose lunch account is filled up and ready to go, Outstanding!

Loving that retro brown bag, Mom who found last year’s banana still in that Batman lunch box.

And to those of us who were in the negative during the first week; the lunch staff is kind, kids still ate, and it’s number 14 on the to-do-list and will get done sometime this September, yeah us!

Hey, Mom who irons the uniform jumpers, Rock on!

Hey, Mom who isn’t quite sure what the green stain is, No Worries! (P.S. It’s Pizza Day, circa 2015, and no shame, Friend. That shirt’s got some years left.)

I see you, Home-School Mom; that planner is stunning!

Hi, Mom who had to drive the kids today because they missed the bus and whose boss was a jerk about it; Remember, my Beautiful Iron Iris, that you are a multitasking genius who should be running NASA and he wears ugly ties from the 80s, so take a long lunch today, alright?

Nice Creedence, Drop Off Dad, kids gotta wake up somehow.

Take your time, First Time Preschool Mom; we’re here for hugs all day.

Enjoy that pedicure, They’re Finally all in School Mom!

Thank you for basically being a wizard, Mom who is also a Teacher.

I think the research is still out regarding implanted homing beacons, Oldest Just Left for College Dad, but you go ahead and text him for the 14th time, no one is judging.

Rock your bad self, Volunteered for Lunch Duty the very first day of Kindergarten Mom!

My dear, tired, hopeful, amazing Brothers and Sisters, it’s time for school and we’ve got this. We’ve got this all week long. I see you over there, being all awesome.

What? Of course, you are awesome. Your children are awesome, aren't they? And they love you, don't they? So, if people that awesome love you, it means that you are awesome. That's just math. That I learned in school. Because I am awesome.

You. Are. Awesome. 

Awkward Mom vs. Dr. Strangemom

Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Obscure References. 

There are a LOT of ways to parent, so, naturally, there are a lot of parenting books. Important parenting books written by important people; some of them are even doctors. Dr. Sears. Dr. Dobson. Dr. Spock. Dr. Seuss. (My entire parenting playbook came from that last one.) It seems every time I visit the library, which is quite often as you know, there are like 15 new parenting books. And 15 new ways I should be parenting.

Ah. There he is. That pesky Should. I knew he was hiding in here somewhere. Should is probably the villain I tangle with more than any other villain, and that includes Potty Training and What's That Smell. Should is powerful and he goes after everyone, you don't have to be a parent to be attacked by Should, you just have to be breathing. Or not. I am sure ghosts are bothered by Should too, or his twin sister, Shouldn't. I shouldn't have walked so close to that cliff edge, etc. 

I got a rock. 

Should and Shouldn't are relentless. They'll climb into your head and just knock stuff over. They're like the jerk cats of the villains gallery. "Oops, there goes Self-esteem, unfortunately it's rather delicate and completely shattered." "Oh, did you want that full glass of Self-control? Too bad, I seem to have spilled it on top of something called Random Outburst." "Well, why would you leave Confidence sitting so close to the edge of the table?" Jerks....

Anywho, back to parenting. There are LOTS of different ways to parent, interestingly, about just as many as there are parents roaming around out there. To quote one of those important doctors who wrote one of those important books: "What good mothers and fathers instinctively feel like doing for their babies is usually best after all." -Dr. Benjamin Spock (Awkward Mom impressively avoids a Star Trek reference here.) He's right and the reason I have yet to create a chore chart but Super 1st Grader has founded his first book club.

Yes, it's Harry Potter themed. 

Yes, it's glorious. 

It's also the reason Super Kindergarten knows all the words to Fat Bottomed Girls. And why Super Oldest owns more books than the local library. And why we have three movie nights a week, but no regular bedtime. And why Super Preschooler is obsessed with Nova. And why Awkward Dad calls Super Baby his little Kingpin and no one really worries about that. And it's why my decorating style leans toward nouveau-Munsters and this:

Space-themed string art is the velvet Elvis of the string art world. 

Now, I would be lying if I didn't tell you that there are still several moments every single day that I think I don't have the slightest idea what is best for my children. I should read more parenting books and Pinterest stuff and paint everything beige and maybe check those birth certificates again because who in their right minds would trust me with human lives?!?!

Should? Should, is that you in there? Stop touching that! That Self-Contentment is new, get your hands off it! Get out!

Let's regroup with another Dr. Spock quote: "All the time a person is a child, he is both a child and learning to be a parent. After he becomes a parent, he becomes predominantly a parent reliving childhood." You know what this mean, right? This means that all that time I spent chasing fireflies and daydreaming about pirates and making mistakes and eating blueberries and painting on the walls and trying to make friends and writing letters and loving stuffed animals and reading my way through my parents' library I was actually preparing to be the me that is here today, in charge of the initial development of 5 human phenoms.

Yeah, but I am sure they mean people who didn't waste their childhoods. They mean people who were serious and highly talented and truly artistic and actually paying attention, like you should've been.

Should?! Should, I see you over there! You can hide yourself with contractions all you want, but I would know your whining anywhere. Get out of there and get your hands off my memories, those are valuable!

OK, let's try this again. I'm bringing out the big guns: "Trust yourself. You know more than you think you do." -Dr. Benjamin Spock

I know how to make cute kids, 

I trust myself to do that.

I know a lot of stuff. Some of it is traditional parenting stuff, but most of it is not. Most of it has to do with movies and comic books and the Muppets and Star Wars and 1970s folk music. Is this stuff that a self-respecting modern mother should know? You know what? Yes. Yes, Should. Yes, it is. I am not the best mother in the world, but I am the best mother for my children.

Should and Shouldn't are pesky jerks, but they aren't going anywhere. I think it's part of being human to deal with them, part of being a person with conscious thought and emotional awareness. I wouldn't trade those away, so I guess I'm stuck with Should and Shouldn't. Maybe the trick is spotting them, seeing them for who and what they are and for who and what they are not. They are noise and fury, they are not truth and light. They are a pause in the music, they are not the music. They are regrets and worries, they are not hopes and dreams. They are part of me, but they are not all of me.

And I should remember that all of me 

is strange and beautiful and unique 

and capable of shaping extraordinary new life.

Awkward Mom vs. Summer Fever

Hi, Parents! It's nearly August and time to take your summer temperature. Your risk of fever, of course, depends on many factors, not the least of which is your summer-parent affiliation. Someone nudge the pool parents; they aren't listening. Looks like they are plugged into their audio-books and might be napping under those Jackie O. sunglasses, I can't quite tell. The super organized parents have had new planners since July 5th, are crafting a brand new French Bulletin Board for their Kitchen Command Center, and, naturally, can NOT wait for school to start. The working parents are sick of paying for camp, thank you very much. The homeschoolers took a 2 week break in late June to visit the National Parks, refreshed the schoolroom the first week of Target's back to school sale, got right into the new curriculum, and would like us to keep it down, please. The no-screen parents are running out of ideas. The all-screen parents haven't actually seen their 12-year-old leave the basement in 6 days and are wondering when and if he is going to the bathroom. They have also taken to humming the Fortnite music around the office and coworkers are concerned. Someone pass the Disney parents some granola bars, they look exhausted and this is gonna take awhile.

Summer Fever happens every August; we all start to panic or rejoice that the summer is coming to an end. In August. The most summer of the summer months. Even the word August sounds like the sigh of a Southern gentleman as he sits under a weeping willow, slowly fanning himself and sipping a sweating glass of lemonade. And yet, we hear it and start freaking out about school shoes and fall leaves and pumpkins and backpacks and plaid skirted nostalgia. Old Man Calendar shakes his fist and yells at us that we have tons of time, summer doesn't actually end until September 22, why aren't we listening to him and why won't we get off his lawn?! We could blame the change of farming culture, a more robust education budget (compared to the 1800s, mind you), more fall/spring breaks, and Target. I love you, Target, but that back to school sale started the second you put those fourth of July flags away, and, holy cats, is that Halloween stuff I spy over there?! Target, take a nap already!

Summer Fevers are fevers; they make you sweaty, tired, dizzy, and pretty crazy. They will convince you that you are totally failing your children by not having enjoyed the stuffing out of every precious day of summer so far and by not infusing every remaining day of summer with memory-making, bucket list experiences, and circus-level excitement. And you will feel this way whether you yourself like summer or not; the fall-lovers will just feel more guilt about the proceedings. And this will go on until the first day of school, when you will trade your Summer Fever for Back-to-School Flu, where everyone obsessively compares first day photos until someone throws up. Which, in turn, gives way to Football Fatigue, Homework Shock, Halloween Haze, and Christmas Paralysis. On and on and on until you set up a chair next to Old Man Calendar and yell at your grandchildren to slow down and get off the lawn for Pete's sake!

Or you could join the resistance...

This is the Resistance.

Of course, we have dinosaurs. 

First of all, resist the urge to compare your summer to anyone else's summer. No one else knows the inner workings of your life, bank account, patience, or sand tolerance. Facebook thinks it does, but that's just your political preference and Amazon search history. I know it's tempting, but don't confuse those things with your soul. Your summer is not going to look like the summer of the woman with the gorgeous hair that you went to middle school with. And here's a secret I have to tell you; her summer doesn't really look like her summer either, I don't care what Instagram told you. Comparison and selective framing is a way of life in our social media existence, but that doesn't make it healthy or sane. Please stop comparing your summers and thinking anyone's opinion matters. The only summer opinions that matter are yours. And your children's. And speaking of that....

Second of all, resist the urge to create magical summer experiences for your children. They are going to hate them anyway and tell you the best moment of the summer was when those two neighbor dogs got into a fight on the lawn and you had to break it up by turning on the hose. Children are children; they have the attention span of gnats. They will have the worst day of their lives because you gave them 4 chicken nuggets instead of 5. 10 minutes later, they will be elated because the Disney channel is showing the Little Mermaid. 5 minutes after that they will upend the table you set that Pinterest craft on, that took you 3 hours to prep, and declare they are building a fort, which they will abandon 14 minutes later to stare out the window for awhile. This is why we take 800 pictures when we do anything with our children that cost us energy and money because we know our children are not going to remember it. But that time your dropped a watermelon in the Whole Foods produce section and also dropped the F bomb? Yeah, they are never gonna forget that. Look for that one to come up at Thanksgiving 2037.

Third of all, resist the urge the think that children experience time the same way adults do. They don't. Time doesn't move quickly until you can actually tell time. This is way toddlers hate naps; 10 minutes or 10 years, it's all the same to them. Some seriously heady existential Rip-Van-Winkle stuff going on up in here. Think about your own memories, your own childhood. Which lasted longer; ages 10-20 or ages 20-30? I bet you lived about 18 lifetimes between 10-20, and 20-30 passed one weekend during a particularly intense Burning Man. Childhood feels endless, and that is why stuffing it with every possible activity, outing, and freezie-pop is just ridiculous. (Testing is not complete regarding freezie-pop possibilities; check back with us around September 22.) Children don't feel summer slipping away or escaping; they are busy on 14 different adventures you will never know about until they need some tape. Now, you. Well, you feel like summer is rushing by because it is. It really is.

My dear Friend, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you are an adult. We're adults, everything is rushing. We can tell time now, and, unfortunately, time takes this familiarity as an excuse to speed up. Time's like a professor that knows you understand the material and decides to push through at double speed. This sucks, no real way around that. However, being an adult does have its perks. I vividly remember the summer I was 12; it just would not end and life would just not start and being an adult and able to drive and escape and control my destiny would just be the best thing ever. Guess what? You are an adult; you get to decide what the best thing ever is. In case you are napping by the pool or finishing up that French Bulletin Board, I've taken the liberty of making a summer best thing ever list for you.

Best things about summer because you are now an adult

You can love summer, every second of it, all the way to September 22, and sit poolside until you need a sweater over your bikini. If you want to sun some more and skip back-to-school night, I'll pick up your packet for you, just let me know.

You can hate summer and long dreamily for pumpkin spice lattes and flannel tights with plaid skirts and hipster scarves and the apple-scented chill in the air. Put an autumn candle directly in front of your air conditioner and close your eyes. We'll wake you up for dinner.

You can give your children screens. That 11 hour Minecraft session is gonna let you finish 2 books. Personal experience.

Don't give your children any screens. Sneak in some screen time yourself and print out some fabulous summer ideas. Your chalk art and train track building skills are gonna be expert level by mid-July.

Limit screen time; for them, for you, for the dog, whatever works. Your phone has a timer feature, use it.

Say you limit screen time and then totally forget the TV is a screen. Yes, Netflix, I am still watching. Gee, judge much?

Take an expensive vacation. You only live once.

Don't take an expensive vacation. College isn't going to pay for itself.

Decide a trip to the community pool is an expensive vacation because, let's be honest, why are they charging more than a $1 for chips?!

Homeschool fractions.

Embrace the summer slide.

Decide Octonauts is educational, throw a bag of cherries on the couch, and call it a day.

Make experimental art with your sunglasses and found items.

Sky's the limit. 

There are more, but these cherries aren't gonna eat themselves. It's almost August, and I've got summering to do. Remember, the best cure for Summer Fever is something delicious, a deep breath, your best calm-down voice, and the knowledge that you are doing the very best you can for your children when you are true to yourself and your unique skills. Fall will come, Summer will last, Time is what you make of it. It's going too fast and you have lots of time; it's weird but welcome to the miracle that it parenthood.

Be you. You are doing just fine, I promise.

Now, Summer Brain Freeze has no known cure.

Maybe the homeschoolers have figured it out, 

those guys are tireless! 

Awkward Mom vs. Sports Moms

Children propel parenthood. It's the natural order of things. You think parenthood is one big push of the children out of the nest, but, in fact, the children push you first; back you up, bit by bit, until you have a decent running start and a view of where they are trying to go. This slow backing up is just part of that important parenting lesson that even though this small human looks like you and talks like you and walks like you, he or she is not, in fact, you, but a complete and independent person who just isn't going to fit in your nest someday. Now, your basement nest, I suppose that is a different story and a tale for another time.

No, today, we are talking about autonomy-shoves. And these pushes are usually gradual steady slides that I wouldn't say you are ready for but they don't typically come out of nowhere. Super Oldest pushed me into the world of Dance Moms; I didn't love it, never have figured out those pesky false eyelashes, but I have a theater degree and a love of drama, so it wasn't a far leap. Super 1st Grader pushed me into saying, with alarming regularity, "Oh, don't sit there, Super 1st Grader's invisible spider likes that chair best." But, again, this wasn't too far from my own defiantly imaginative home base, louder perhaps, but familiar.

But, Super Kindergartener. Oh, Super Kindergartener. Well, you see, Super K. is her own fireball, always has been. That child entered the world like a tornado and really hasn't slowed down in 6 years of being here. So, I suppose it stands to reason that her pushing wouldn't be gentle or gradual. No, Super K. decided to shove me off a cliff into the world of Sports Moms, and I'm pretty sure I'm still falling.

You're killing me, Smalls! 

I am not competitive or coordinated. I usually lose at Monopoly because I've given all my money away so we can all keep playing, and even I know that socialist-monopoly is a pretty bizarre winning strategy; much more of a jigsaw puzzle kind of girl. And then, of course, there is my ability to trip on mere air. I mean, my name is Awkward Mom, you do the math. Point is, Sports and I have never been allies. I wouldn't call him a villain, I enjoy his Olympic events and the occasional baseball game hot dog and watching all the hotties in the World Cup, but Sports and I aren't exactly buddies. I've got no major problems with him, but sometimes his followers are hard to take. (Restrains self from launching into a tangent on organized religion)

Sports fan are wild and loud and I wouldn't want to be stuck in an elevator with them, but for the most part they are good natured people who get really excited about penalty arcs or encroachment, no different than your average comic book fan. For comics and sports, the panels and spread are all still there, there's just usually more sunlight involved in the latter. Anywho, like I said, I'm cool with Sports and I'm at peace with most of his followers, so where does the reluctance come in? Well, where it always comes in; looking foolish in front of my peers. And there aren't any peers more intimidating than Sports Moms.

You've met them; these masters of the mini-van, these behemoths of the ball field. Leaders in lululomon and north face vests, who always seem to have an unlimited supply of orange slices and energy. Valkyries who stalk the sidelines, too powerful to sit in the tricked-out camp chairs they set up by the dugout. You've met a Sports Mom. She's always early and somehow her son's hockey stuff is always clean. She knows the schedule and the score without having to ask the coach. She is completely aware of your child's strengths, weaknesses, and season record, and you still aren't quite sure if her daughter is Evelyn or Avery or Eva. Sports Moms are amazing, self-assured, strong, beautiful women who know how to inspire a herd of 8-year-olds, while making reservations for next month's tournament on their phone, and weaving coordinating ribbons into pigtails, while assessing the other team's goalie's covering angles, and keeping an eye on 3 siblings at the nearby park. Basically, they are terrifying.

Especially if your pale self happens to be used to life in the wings, this dazzling display of athletic fireworks can knock you for a loop. And it did. At Super K.'s first softball game, I wanted to run right back to the wings and hide, and I would have, if we were talking about 6-year-old Awkward Mom. But we aren't. We are talking about 6-year-old Super Kindergartener, and her autonomy looks nothing like the cool dark library mine lives in. No, hers lives in the blaring sun of a diamond. Super K. has needs that I don't understand; a need to win, a need to run, a need to chant rude things at the pitcher. I could deny it. I could easily shoehorn her into my dreams for her. I mean, she doesn't look like an athlete, with her tiny frame and little flapper bob and hands still with baby dimples. It would be easy to pass her off as anything else. She's got it all really, she could function in any world. And yet, it's there and it won't be denied. Not really denied. Maybe delayed but never denied. It's there in her eyes. A fierce focus that will not be cooed or rationalized away.

It's always been there.

I don't understand it, but I respect it. Her need to be herself will be respected, I swear it. But Sports Moms? Why did it have to be Sports Moms? I have nothing in common with them, and lord knows what they are going to make of me. I can't do this. I don't want to freeze in April and burn in June. I don't want to fend off bugs and uncharitable thoughts about umpires. I don't want to prep water bottles and clean helmets and have every pair of shoes I own covered in dirt. I don't want to sit here in this comfortable chair in the shade and shout "Hustle!" at sweating 8-year-olds wearing face masks and baseball pants; I'll choke on the hypocrisy. I can't hang with Sports Moms, they are too strong and tall and knowledgeable and confident and tan. I just can't.

But I will. 

For her. 

I'll do it for her. I'll back up for her. I'll back all the way up and tetter on the edge of my nest, windmilling my arms to try not to fall, if that's what it takes to help her grow her autonomy. If that's what I have to do to get her where she is going. If that's what she need to be herself, then OK, let's sports-mom. Let's sports-mom all that way to ribbon ponytails and powerade.

Because that's parenthood, isn't it? Stretching further than you've ever thought possible, sometimes literally, just because your baby asked you to. Propelling forward on nothing but faith and the needs of your child. You can't see the other side, but you know they need to get there, so you go. You say a prayer and you jump off the cliff. Maybe you try to remember the sunscreen but you still go. You swallow your fear and you chat with the impossibly fit woman next to you about batting averages and the cut-off man. Maybe it will never feel totally comfortable and maybe it will never truly be your home, but that's OK; this isn't about you.

It's about her.