Well Paint Me Yellow and Call Me a Taxi

It was June 20th, the last day of school. I was looking forward to no strict bedtime regimes and long, lazy days and nights of not having to run to various school functions. My perfect visions included icy, cold glasses of lemonade and a hammock. (Apparently I'm delusional in my visions because I don't work.) Then reality came and gave me a smack across the face.

We're now about halfway through the summer. Honestly, I can't get these little *$%#*'s in school fast enough! Since the oldest is making an ass of himself (See blog post: It's Gonna Be Puntacular Up In Here) and has his first job, I play a lot of taxi driver. Not to mention that baby boy is doing a morning program at the school and needs to be picked up from the bus stop. I've spent so much time recently shuttling one child here to there or there back to here that my ass is crying uncle. It just can't take that car seat any longer.

My lovely lunch hour, the one that I so covet for its lovely solitude and quiet in my house, has been disrupted. I now rush home to eat the quickest sandwich ever (Hello indigestion!) and then run and get baby boy off the bus. I bring him home and make his lunch because the poor kid doesn't get home until 1 and my over active imagination hears violins and sees sad, crocodile tears from my under nourished child. The middle daughter is trying out the role of babysitter (She even took a course so that she's certified. Back when I was her age they just let us sit on babies. We didn't even need special course permission!) and has 3 hours in the afternoon to practice on baby brother. Which is nerve racking. That same over active imagination can come up with at least a dozen kidnap scenarios and half a dozen injuries sustained. The truth is they sit around playing games and watching the boob tube until their neurotic mother rushes home after work looking for the ransom note.

Me: Week 5 of summer

After a month of all this constant driving around, I'm exhausted. I hope these little punks* appreciate their schedule free fun days that summer allows them because their mother needs a nap. Or twelve. My stress free, fun filled visions have popped like a cartoon bubble. I'm x'ing off days on the calendar until school starts with mad, gleeful giggles. I think I'm a candidate for a Prozac trial. In the meantime, I'm going to see how much it might cost for them to take an actual taxi and give me a break.


*Mentally there was a much stronger adjective to describe my little angels. It was edited for those of you who might not know how much I do love my kids and think that I call them little bastards in a mean way.