Summer Breeze Makes Me Feel Fine

I came back from a trip to the Cape with the kids to find a pile of back-to-school catalogs on the counter, delivered while we were away. And store circulars are advertising Glade's new autumn scents (Fall Hayride, ewww), and summer clothes are about 75% off by now.

The end of summer is around the corner--on a cool day like today it's almost palpable--and it totally sucks. I am absolutely against it.

To all those people who love to trill, "Summer doesn't really end until late September and the weather that month is so glorious!" I say, "Bite me."

Summer ends when school begins. Period. The end.

I love summer. Yeah, I know everyone says how much they love it, but I really, really do. Like really. As in I despise winter with every particle of my being; I believe autumn is a mere prelude to certain agony and is only made bearable by Halloween; and while spring is often lovely (but just as often winter lite), it makes me antsy because I just want summer to hurry up and get here already.

So, yeah: REALLY.

I will miss this.

This summer in particular has been extra fun, probably because my kids are finally old enough to be real pals. There are no more potty issues, no more naps. Fewer meltdowns, fewer tantrums. They are my partners in crime (and by "crime" I mean spoiling our appetites with ice cream before dinner and tracking sand all over my parents' beach house).

By mid-August, it's true that many SAHMs are counting the minutes until they can pack their little (or not so little) ones onto the bus and finally BREATHE. Hear themselves think. Finish a cup of coffee while it's still hot.

I will super-duper miss this.

But not me. Especially not this year. Because this year, my baby is starting Kindergarten...and for the first time in over 7.5 years, I will have HOURS to myself. Which sounds like a good thing--a great thing, even--until I really think about. Then I realize: September is going to be super, horribly, terribly lonely.

Luckily, I have freelance work lined up. Otherwise the situation at our house would be Code Red by Columbus Day.

But there will still be times when I won't know what to do with myself.

I will be restless.

I will have time on my hands to ponder the reality that my kids growing older means so am I.

I will pine.

I will cry.

And then I will breathe deeply. I will listen to my thoughts as I finish my hot coffee.

And it will be okay.

To "Summer" or Not to "Summer"?

I am spending a nice, relaxing week at the beach with my family. The first thing I always notice upon arriving at the quiet corner of Cape Cod where my parents have their beach house is how straight-out-of-the-Polo-catalog-adorable the kids are. They are altogether blonder, preppier, and more outdoorsy than the kids where we live. The kids who summer on Cape Cod do not look like they spend hours playing video games in their bedrooms.

Then, just as I've gotten used to the angelic blondness of the local kids, I notice the moms. Wow, are they pretty! You remember that girl in college who excelled at field hockey, took extra courses because of her double major, did loads of charity work, yet still managed to be friends with everyone and was always smiling? Well, it appears that every single mom around here was "that girl" at her college. If life were a rom-com, the moms where I live would play the loud, funny best friend, but these Cape moms would all be leading ladies.  

Pretty soon my mind begins to wander back to when I was a girl and my family would spend a week at the Cape--we'd stay at a house in a neighborhood where the families often stayed for the entire summer. I'd spend the whole week playing catch-up with the few beach "friends" I had and most of the time feeling clueless and pale. I didn't know the rules to the games they played and their inside jokes went right over my head. I so desperately wanted to be one of them: all sun bleached hair, golden skin, and freckled noses...sharp tan lines and perfectly worn rope bracelets. 

And now I'm all grown up, yet spending a week in this insular Cape town can make me feel like that child again. The moms all know each other--most of them spend the summer here with the kids, waiting for their husbands to drive down every weekend. They are on local committees, they plan parties and set up play-dates between their kids, and their adorable spawn take swimming, tennis, and sailing lessons through the local yacht club. For the most part, they live in wealthy Boston suburbs; because we live a four-hour (at least) drive away in New York, this arrangement could never work for us. Which is too bad...because once, just once in my life, I really want to try the whole "summering" thing. 

I will probably always be an outsider here. Which doesn't bother me so much now that I'm a grown up. But I do wonder how spending a week or two here each summer will affect my kids as they get older. Will they experience the same sort of alienation I did? Will the wealthy and beautiful kids here make my kids feel inadequate? Or worse, will seeing all those silver spoons cause my children to resent living in the middle-class town we call home?

Hey, perhaps witnessing all that wealth will make my kids appreciate our less-adorned life at home. A mother can hope, you know.

Summer Breeze, Makes Me Feel Fine

Ahhhh, the beach! There's nothing like it, of course. I can be in the foulest mood, but let me loose on a serene beach for an hour and it's guaranteed I'll return in much better form.

I've been coming to Cape Cod since I was a baby--my uncle bought a place in North Falmouth's Old Silver Beach in 1969, the year I was born. My family spent a week or two there every summer, and many of my fondest memories are from those visits.

I remember the drive down seeming interminable, even though it was only an hour-and-a-half (mere child's play to my kids, who are used to regular five-hour drives to see their grandparents.) "Are we there yet?" is such a cliche, but I distinctly recall driving my parents insane with that query the whole way. Or maybe the parental insanity was due to there being no car seats to prevent me and my brothers from pummeling each other the entire 75 miles, and no in-car DVD player to put a stop to the endless litany of complaints.

Three years ago, my parents bought a to-die-for Cape house, right across the street from the beach. So now it falls on me--the parent with New England roots--to instill in my kids a love of Cape Cod. Not that it's difficult--the Cape pretty much sells itself--but five-hour drives suck no matter how many snacks, DVDs, and Sesame Street CDs I pack. Seven-mile backups leading to the Bourne Bridge don't help, either.

But then we arrive...the cool sea breezes beckon, the warm sand slips between our toes, the waves gently lap at the shore, the sun turns the water into an ocean of glittering jewels...and the memory of the long drive, bridge traffic, moaning children, and crappy fast-food fades away.

Because now we are in Paradise. "Hello, Paradise, I've missed you."

What I Learned Today: Sheep Hate Having Their Butts Shaved

Seven years ago today, my husband and I were married on Cape Cod. It was a beautiful thing. Our years together have been surprisingly harmonious considering: 1.) we are raising two small children, 2.) I am opinionated, 3.) I am bossy, 4.) I pretty much always think I'm right (though, to be honest, I really and truly usually am).

Did I remember it's our anniversary today? No, I did not.

To be fair, we don't usually celebrate our anniversary beyond a nice dinner out (sans kids). We don't exchange gifts or make a big deal out of it. This is the first time I've forgotten all about it, however. But this year was a tough one; with our anniversary falling on Mother's Day and all my attention focussed on Charlotte's birthday party, I plum forgot. Luckily, my husband did not; he made a dinner reservation at a restaurant we've been wanting to try and even booked the babysitter and everything.

Ladies, if you want a husband who will do nice things for you, marry a man with sisters. Mine has three, and so far, he's never forgotten a birthday, Mother's Day, or anniversary. He even remembers his sisters' and mother's birthdays, which is pretty impressive for someone with a Y-chromosome.

For Mother's Day, he gave me a lovely bouquet of flowers, two cool tops, and two interesting books (Tina Fey's Bossypants, which I can't wait to read, and a bio of Obama's mother, which will probably make me feel like an underachiever). And I got to pick our day's activity.

I chose the sheep-shearing/farmer's market at Muscoot Farm. Muscoot Farm, originally a "gentleman's farm" begun in the 19th century, is now open to the public and free. It's only 20 minutes away so I take the kids there all the time. Gavin loves the two huge Percherons and Charlotte adores the cows and ducks.

My favorites are the piglets, though the two giant Tamworth pigs haven't had a litter these past couple of years. It's too bad for Charlotte because pigs are her favorite animals, but she has yet to see a real-life piglet in her three short years on Earth. I keep hoping we'll show up at the farm one of these days and there'll be a bunch of adorable oinking piglets frolicking around, but I think they would've been born already if it was going to happen this spring. Bummer.

The sheep-shearing was interesting. I know it doesn't hurt the sheep, but their pleading baaas made it clear they didn't exactly love what was going on. In particular, they did NOT like it when the dude shaved around their anuses. Wow, those were some angry sheep! But I thanked them for sacrificing their wool so I could have a cozy blanket to keep me warm all winter, and I think that made them feel better. The kids got to take home a piece of freshly-shorn wool, which made it all worth it.

And at the farmer's market, I bought myself a Mother's Day present: some Hudson River Apricot Kir wine, which is chilling in the fridge as we speak.

All in all, a pretty darn good Mother's Day (if I do say so myself). Oh, yeah...and a nice anniversary, too.