When I was a kid I lived for summer: long days lying on the sofa, with a stack of Nancy Drew novels next to me, and just reading reading reading; biking the neighborhood streets with my friends and without helmets or rules; running through the sprinkler then drying off by sashaying through the neighborhood in my swimsuit; playing day-long games of Monopoly or Canasta. My father went off, in his stifling suit and tie, to the office. My mother ignored us as much as possible. How I loved the slow, hot boredom and freedom of it.
And now I'm on the other side of it. I'm the mother and: I don't let my ten-year old bike without helmets and rules; I worry if my kids disappear for too long; I try to organize "enrichment" activities for them and, when I don't, I feel guilty. And my husband still has a broken toe and my washing machine broke. I can't wait for summer to end.