Cool Mom Wannabe

Now that school has been officially over for a couple of weeks, many of us have settled nicely into our summer mode. 

The time of chilin' and talking about humidity. Making half-ass plans and then keeping/altering/canceling as the day dictates. It's a 2-1/2 month excuse for letting go of the get-in-the-car/gotta-be-somewhere/running-late-again we perpetrate the rest of the year.

I can totally do this. Stay up. Sleep in. Seat of my pants-flying. I'm cool. Leave the dishes. Ice cream for dinner. Another sleep over? Sure. Skip the hair brush. Day 3 on those socks? See if I care. 

All this structureless time should be cathartic. A power down and a reboot on the "time to the make the donuts" monotony it seemed we'd never shake. Not to mention the daily happy dance of knowing the Vera Bradley lunch boxes are hidden away for months.

But the truth is: I suck at summer. This new groove does not come naturally. Flexibility and go-with-flow are like me at synagogue. I nod along, but really I'm an outsider. As far as summer break is concerned, I realize I'm wound a bit too tightly and I'm afraid If I don't relax soon I'll ruin it for everyone. 

Camden and Duke

Luckily I've pinpointed my major downfall: I can turn a molehill into a mountain in 2.0 seconds. Particularly if that molehill is messy. For a week in June we fostered two of the cutest puppies not sold by WebKinz. My kids were mushy and gushy in all the right ways and and took great care of them. But for some reason, all I could focus on was each and every piddle puddle and poop swirl not dropped outside. Even the piles that successfully landed in the yard stressed me out. My kids made it known that I managed to suck the fun out puppies. That's so sad. Insulting. True. Fun and puppies seemed Crazy Glued together, but apparently when I'm around it's just worn out Velcro and I pulled those right apart. My name is Ellen and I'm a buzz kill. 

If it's true that admitting you have a problem is the first step, then I already feel a smidge less cranky. I will honestly try to take it down a notch and not wish away these precious remaining 53 days of summer. Oh, I gotta run. I think I just heard a blob of brownie batter hit the counter.