Extreme Hormone Warning: I’m feeling a little “Real Housewives” today.
Not in a I’m-going-to-punch-you-in-the-face-because-you-made-fun-of-my-hair way, but more like I could dissolve into an overly dramatic sobfest — at any minute.
I’ve got a bad case of the summertime blues.
It’s not the wicked heat that’s getting to me. And it’s not because I’m jealous that the kids get to summer-camp-it-up, shooting arrows (they’re not getting shipped off to “The Hunger Games” — it’s a legit camp activity) and swimming and slurping Popsicles while I work, work, work. I’m not sniffling because summer upends my life thanks to weekly schedule changes with who goes where and when because good, all-day camps that don’t cost a mortgage are harder to find than No. 3’s left shoe.
No, I’m full-on, diva weepy because the end of school signals another year’s passing like nothing else. It’s a regular reminder of how quickly time flies. As we drove home on the very last day of No. 1’s first year as a high-school student, she said, “You know, I thought this year was going by really slowly. But, it actually went by pretty fast.” Then the kicker: “I’m so glad my freshman year is over.”
Gulp. One step closer to college and flying the nest.
All the graduation pictures of other people’s kids on Facebook are kind of killing me, too.
The close of every school year sparks a mild to moderate midlife crisis — not that it at all bothers the kids. They’re psyched, especially since they start the end-of-the-year countdown immediately after Christmas break.
Having school-age kids turns your life into a perpetual cocktail party — not just because you start drinking — but mostly because there’s that constant small talk with a new group of parents. Then, just when you sort of become friends, boom. School’s out. Time to start all over again.
Don’t even get me started on the teachers. You forge this bond with someone who nurtures your children as much as you do, or in the case of No. 3’s lovely fourth-grade teacher, probably more so, and then they’re gone, too.
It’s enough to make me want to curl up with my woobie blanket and suck my thumb.
All too soon, it’ll be back to shaking kids awake at the butt-crack of dawn, piles of homework, and that awkwardness of getting to know new folks. At least this go-round, we’ll enjoy the familiarity of high school, now that we have the swing of things, and relish one last year of elementary and middle school. Deep sigh. Everyone’s getting so old — and no one knows that better than my hairdresser.
