Note: This is a reprint of a column that ran nearly three years ago. Sadly, little has changed. I'm still the Crier, they're still pulling pranks, and The Mister still isn't up for the switcheroo. Rats. Grandma...? Two months?
They came back this week, those big, yellow buses, to the dismay of school children countywide. Many mothers greeted them with sighs and tears. For some, they were tears of nostalgia as they watched backpacks powered by little legs ascending those tall steps and being whisked away. For others, they were tears of joy accompanied by a sense of victory at having survived the summer without committing infanticide.
At our household, the Crier in Chief (that would be me) presented with such a classic case of mixed emotions that a psychologist would have a field day, trying to conjure up a diagnosis in the whole mess. The thought of my babies moving up another grade always gets me, and the reality of tight schedules and homework again nearly gives me hives.
However, my nerves were wearing thin by summer’s end, and my broom was getting a little too much flight time thanks to the dinking around and slow response times from certain young men. In fact, on the last day of summer break, I dialed up their father at work and said grimly, “Get your speech ready.”
“Which one?” he said. When I told him, he stepped right up and without missing a beat gave me some powerful words of “encouragement” to share with his offspring. He’s quite the motivational speaker, let me tell you.
I’m beginning to think that those families who send the kids to stay with Grandma and Grandpa for the summer are on to something. I don’t know what crawled into those boys, but for about three or four weeks there, they staged their own “shock and awe” campaign on us, their loving parents.
