Holy crap, blogworld. I swear it’s still May. Or maybe early June. But seriously, the end of July?
Summer, you are a liar. You boast lazy days and long evenings–yet you bring crazed days of schlepping sand toys and sunscreen and picnic lunches and mosquito bites. You give visions of lounging in a hammock, poolside–and bring harried moments of suitcase packing and too-long car trips. You promise days full of adventure and fun–and place that bag of responsibility squarely in my hands as the planner-of-all-things-fun. You promise bronzed skin and gorgeous beach-waved hair–and give freckles and damaged hair.
Summer: here’s my message to you. No more. No more over-tired kids. No more schlepping. No more sticky drippy bubble goo on my arm. No more side walk chalk. No more sand. No more ‘cruise-ship-activity-director’ (AKA mom). No more ‘are we there yets?’. No more living out of a suitcase. No more hunting and gathering to pack said suitcases. No more acting like a crazed lunatic when the suitcases are rummaged through. And for goodness sakes, no more freckles.
Well, a girl can dream. Right?