Bedtime

It’s summer and bedtime at our house has gone from dismal to downright tragic. During the school year we have some semblance of a routine that includes showers, at least one toothbrush, prayers and a bedtime story. I have now rationalized that the pool is the equivalent of a bath only better because it’s like dipping them in bleach—even their fingernails come clean. The only clue my children have that it’s bedtime is when I walk through the house flipping off the lights and announce that I’m tired. Last night I told my children to get their pajamas on and my daughter walked up to me and pointed to her chest, “But Mom, you never dressed me today. I’m still in my pajamas.”


I’m not sure if it’s the increase in daylight or the fact that I get a reprieve from running around to football, baseball, and dance practice that make me believe that summer means more time and more possibilities but I always feel sucker-punched by the reality. I still haven’t spent any more time writing my novel than I did during our busy football season last year and I haven’t joined the kids in the pool more than twice so far. I seem to spend my blocks of new free-time cleaning up the house—mainly because the kids are here full-time and there’s just more messes. It’s too hot to workout, but I’m too busy in the fall to workout so I’m sure you can see the pattern here. I was hoping to spend time with my friends, since our schedules were supposedly loosening up, but we seem to pass each other on the street with out luggage racks bursting as we traipse from one family reunion to another. About the only change from the school-year to the summer for me is that I’ve managed to get a tan—quite a feat given my French-Irish heritage. So, I’ve decided that I’m going to embrace summer for what it is and enjoy the few weeks where I can wear white without resembling a ghost. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go turn off all the lights so that my kids will know it’s time to wander off to bed.