Some days I feel like brontosaurus. (Others, I'm definitely a T Rex, and those are days you better get out of my way.) Summers bring on a brontosaurus mood, by their very nature.

The changing way you look at summer dates you as surely as if you'd gotten your hand stamped at the cosmic library.

Remember when you were a kid? I can, vaguely. Remember how summer looked then? Like an endless corridor with lots of wonderful doors leading off of it, and each door led to a different opportunity to do something really neat.

That was the summer feeling that prevailed for the first twenty years of my life. So just the word "summer" conjured up pleasurable images, and it became a different way of life -- Summer, not summer. In Summer, you wore clothes that were cool, and you could get them dirty. In Summer, you didn't have to get up and get on the school bus. In Summer, you could have friends over in the middle of the week. In Summer, you could go to the movies any night. In Summer, you might even go on a vacation.

The season still had that feel until I got married and had a baby, and another baby, and then another. That was the screeching halt to Summer, and the beginnings of summer as Hell. Let me explain that though I think my children are the center of the universe and I love every molecule of their bodies, I am not (and never was and never will be) a "kid" person. I was never a mother who lined up arts and crafts for her children to do, and never a mother who loved to go out in the yard and play with her kids and their friends. I was also not a mom who could relax and let the house go into summer mode, whatever that might be.

I was an older, tenser, mom, who just wanted things to go smoothly with few arguments and no blood-letting.

Of course, it never worked out that way. Oh, I've played my share of Candyland, and I've filled my share of wading pools. I've had slumber parties and cooked hamburgers and hot dogs, and I've thrown plenty of birthday celebrations. But I was never a  good Summer mom.

Now that I only have one chick left in the next, and that chick can drive, I don't automatically tense up when someone says the "s" word in my ear. I know I'll get to work without the kids (or their sitter) interrupting me every ten minutes. I know I don't have to worry about Chick hitting her friends with a stick or not picking up her dolls and crayons. (Now she doesn't pick up much bigger items.)

And you know what? That makes me a brontosaurus. Actually, thinking back on it . . . I'm good with that.

Comments

[Michele]

I can totally understand. I think of myself as a "kid" person not because I roll out those activities but because of my absolute devotion to my kids. I used to do the arts and crafts and all, and was endlessly frustrated with the five minute attention span, or worse "Mom is performing for me" that I got from my son. Then he was diagnosed as autistic and it changed everything.

Sometimes teaching kids the survival skills to keep things running smoothly despite heat, storminess and occasionally boredom is more important than sitting and playing Candyland. My son gets caught up in loops of behavior repeating the same activity, movement or verbalization for 15-20 minutes at a time. It took me a long time to not feel bad because I couldn't keep up my enthusiasm up.

There's nothing wrong with missing school and quieter (not to mention cleaner) days.

[Dana Cameron]

I get this, Charlaine. It's like what I call the myth of the faux Friday. I look forward to Friday all week, but it doesn't mean I won't be working on the weekend (and maybe even harder). The idea of Friday is an one that gets me through the week. Your velociraptor friend, Dana