Well, summer happened. I know it for a fact. We had weeks of 100 degree-plus weather. I know Whiny had some swim meets. Oh, and of course, we are in the throws of the Olympics: the ‘summer’ Olympics. I know we are experiencing summer. So why do I have this nagging feeling that summer ended before it ever began?
I guess it all started, or rather ended, for me the last week of July when a friendly email reminder came from all three schools that my children—I know you will be shocked—did not have up-to-date medical forms. Yeah, yeah, I’ll get to it. It’s July, for God’s sake. And just as I tucked that information into the dusty recesses of my brain’s to-do list, Cranky informed me that her tennis program starts in one week and if she hasn’t had her checkup, she can’t play.
School is starting the first week of August? Don’t get me wrong; I can’t wait to get them back in school and put my chauffeuring duties to rest, but the first week of August? I remind myself that it’s just tennis and there is still plenty of summer left. Apparently, I was mistaken. Even Punch, who is still in grammar school, has had to curtail his Huckleberry Finn activities to start on his summer reading. Did I say start? I, of course, meant finish, finish his summer reading.
Summer flies by. It always does. I guess now that Cranky is in high school (gasp) the shortness of the season is not just emotional, it’s literal. Summer has become a three-month season that is six weeks long. They say the older you get, the faster time seems to pass. I guess the only exception is when your teenagers are out on a date or at a party—then time stands still.