For so many of my friends, summer has already begun. I've been positively pea green with envy as I see all those cute last-day-of-school pictures and celebratory ice cream cones. Because here, we're still drowning in homework and the endless parade of end-of-school events, and we have about 12 days, four hours and 35 minutes left until it's finally over. (Not that I'm counting.)
Don't get me wrong—I love school. I ADORE school. And my kids generally do, too. It's just that the end-of-year hoopla is as relentless and draining as the pre-Christmas/Hanukkah frenzy. And based on the hollow eyes and Walking Dead zombie shuffles I'm seeing at dropoff, it's clear that my fellow parents are about one to-do away from collapsing on the sidewalk in a slightly soft and sweaty middle-aged heap.
For starters, my youngest daughter's teacher is a sadist. She sent my daughter home last week (LAST WEEK!) with her very first (and fingers crossed, last) first grade project. It's a report about an animal, with an accompanying diorama of the animal in its habitat. Her teacher insisted that we couldn't half-ass it and buy one of those tubes of tiny plastic animals from the craft store (or 1-Clicking it from Amazon, which would have been my M.O.). So instead, we spent two hours modeling a cheetah-like creature out of clay so we could hot-glue it into her shoebox. I had planned to cover the outside of the box with paper to make it look nicer, but my daughter couldn't care less, and neither can I. (If my daughter's teacher had wanted a fancy paper covering, she should have scheduled this particular project in April, when we still gave a hoot.)
My schedule this week also includes two recitals (with accompanying dress rehearsals), an awards ceremony of indeterminate length, our regular slate of post-school activities, a Girl Scout moving up ceremony, a "fun Friday" event at the school, and naturally, baking a cake that my oldest daughter could bring in to her class to construct a massive map of New Jersey out of sugar, and then eat it with her classmates. (That's the culmination of a full year of studying New Jersey history.)
My youngest daughter's Girl Scout ceremony conflicts with her dress rehearsal, and comes right after "fun Friday," which includes events like face painting, water balloon throwing and eating a full year's supply of red food coloring in the form of Italian ice. We have argued every single day this week about why she can't get her face painted, because we have had situations where even sandpaper doesn't seem to get the face paint off of her thoroughly, and her dance teacher would probably frown on that accessory. However, I'm fully expecting that my daughter's going to come home today with a big black owl painted on her cheek, which I'm sure will look lovely with both her rainbow sparkle tutu and her haphazardly adorned Daisy tunic (we lost about 79 percent of the badges before I had enough spare time to try to iron them on).
But that's nothing compared to what my equally fatigued book club pals have. As we slumped in chairs and tried to resuscitate ourselves with prosecco and peanut butter cookies, we traded war stories. One was convinced her daughter stopped actually learning in March, so her class could squeeze in all the field trips, bonding events, and celebrations that come with graduating sixth grade. Her dance card's still full with special breakfasts and ceremonies through the end of the year. Another has a second grade graduation to attend next week at 9:30 a.m.—and the note came home saying that "most kids go home afterward with their parents to celebrate for the rest of the day." (She guesses most parents in her school must not actually work for a living.) Her school, inexplicably, goes one half-day longer than ours, but she's rebelling and taking her kids to the beach on the last day of school instead.
I'm putting a plea out now, for next year, to all the extracurricular activity runners and the teachers: Go easy on us in June. We're tired, we're cranky, we're sick of sending in healthy lunches and signing permission slips and nagging about homework. Move whatever you can to March or May or better yet, October, when we're still fresh and excited and eager. Right now, all we want to do is sip iced tea in a hammock and let our kids run through the sprinkler. Or maybe sleep in a hammock for an entire day. Either way, I'm officially washing my hands of all cheetah-sculpting and book report reviewing—until at least September 1.
Tell us: What's on your agenda for the rest of the school year? Or are you—lucky dog—already done?
Image: Blackboard summer message by blackboard1965/Shutterstock.com