Because my personality type can be best described as “A”, I had written down “playground” in my agenda for today, the first day of summer vacation. Even writing this, I feel a bit lame. I mean, “playground” on the to-do list? But hey, we all have our quirks, right? Even if mine tend toward the lame and nerdy.

With all the horrible weather of late, we had not been visiting many playgrounds, and the particular playground I planned for today’s outing is one that we hadn’t been to since last summer. The morning was unusually warm, and the boys were excited, and I remembered to pack bug spray and put ice in the water bottles, I had a blanket in the car for a picnic snack, and really the morning could not have been better. I looked around at the other moms there and felt a certain kind of sympathy for the very tired looking ones, who were chasing toddlers but also carrying tiny babies in slings or car seats. I looked at my own hooligans, climbing and running and happy, and I felt like I had become one of those moms that I used to be jealous of – with little kids but not too little; little enough to be happy to be at the playground with their mother, but not so little that they were clinging like barnacles onto the ship that is my body.

The rest of the day passed very pleasantly, with waffles and water squirters, and lots of imaginative play. I felt like a rockstar of a mom: I didn’t raise my voice even once today, which must be some kind of record. I foresaw issues before they became issues and resolved them. I felt relaxed and happy. Today, I was the kind of parent that I want to be.

It was the perfect start to the summer.

It was the last day of preschool today, but don’t worry! I am not going to regale you with some melancholy post about the passage of time, boo hoo, my kids aren’t at preschool anymore, boo hoo, I have to figure out some good summer activities, etc. Instead, I’m going to regale you with some odd and entertaining events in my day today.

1) I asked the boys to draw pictures of their teachers to attach to our year-end gift. After completing his portraits, Jake, whose artistic skills are, shall we say, not entirely developed yet, looked at said portraits, and announced that they really looked more like a lion and an octopus, rather than our beloved teachers. Truly, this was the case.
2) I walked by a large patch of lily-of-the-valley in bloom, and the scent reminded me of my grandma. I used to give her lily-of-the-valley talcum powder for her birthday. I wondered, if I’m ever lucky enough to be a grandma, will my grandchildren give me lily-of-the-valley talcum powder? Or will I be more of a lavender grandma? Will they even still manufacture talcum powder then? Or will it go the way of the housedress and lisle stockings?
3) As I was walking the dog, I was ogled by a City of Calgary Waste Management employee. Hoo boy! Is there anything more uplifting to the spirit than being catcalled by the garbage man?

Here are the boys on their first day of school:

And here they are on their last:

Awww….

This morning I woke up ten minutes before my alarm went off, with a strange and unusual feeling. What is this? Oh right! I feel rested! I kind of forgot what that felt like.

A friend with a nine-month-old baby was telling me the other day that the baby still wakes up once or twice a night, and I tried to look and sound as sympathetic as possible, but the fact is that Jake, who will be FOUR in a few months, wakes up once or twice a night, at least half of the time. Now, I hasten to add, when he wakes up he needs little more than a pat on the back or maybe a kiss, and we are both back to sleep. In fact, the trip to his room and back probably only accounts for thirty seconds of my time, and because I’m so used to these middle-of-the-night interruptions, they really don’t affect me.

But the boys have been a bit short on sleep these days, and it has started to add up for them. Normally I think they are very well-rested, but it’s tricky to ensure adequate sleep at this time of the year, what with the sky being bright from 5:00 am to 10:00 pm and everything. Add soccer, school, and lots of outdoor play to the mix and you get two very tired boys. Tuesday night Jake woke up seven (seven!) times and was clearly so over-tired he just couldn’t settle back down. Then yesterday he and Mark played pleasantly together all day. Kidding. Of course with that kind of sleep deficit, their behaviour was somewhat hideous and bratty, and I felt like I was slowly going insane. With MY sleep deficit tossed into the mix, you can well imagine what our harmonious household was like: about as harmonious as the “parades” that occur with some frequency around here, which are comprised of the kids playing a harmonica, banging on a cowbell, and shaking maracas all at the same time.

Yesterday was also the preschool family picnic, and let’s just say that by the time we were in the car going home there was quite a lot of whining, complaining, and general discontent. Amazingly, I was alert enough to realize that they were not evil demon-children, but actually really tired children. It’s funny how I can sometimes forget that, and think that they are just out to get me. Anyway, after dinner there was much shrieking and sobbing about ridiculous things (“Mark squirted me with water! My bubble wand isn’t working! I have no feet!” and “Jake is crying too much! He said your flower is purple, but it’s really purply-pink! I don’t want a snack!”) and so I made the executive decision to put the kids to bed a full hour earlier than normal, and they both slept solidly for twelve hours. Suffice it to say that today has been much, much more enjoyable. Actually harmonious, no cowbells involved.

Today I woke up in a despairing mood, thinking that Friday – this Friday! – is the last day of preschool. I have mixed emotions about this: on the plus side, we will have so much freedom to visit the zoo, playgrounds, the Science Centre, and have playdates. On the minus side: there goes my time to myself. Even writing that I feel selfish, but I trust all you moms out there, especially all you stay-at-home moms, know exactly what I mean.

I think this year of having both boys in preschool, even though it is only 7.5 hours a week, has made me a bit soft. I mean, I used to spend all day every day with them not so long ago, and they were much (much!) more demanding back then. I used to have one of them in my arms at almost all times, I used to push them in a gigantic double stroller, I used to soothe someone’s crying every hour, I used to pack an enormous bag full of two changes of clothes, two sets of diapers, two sets of snacks, two sets of cups and bottles. Now, of course, I rarely have to physically pick them up, they don’t ride in a stroller, crying is infrequent and the reason for the crying is apparent, I can leave the house with only a couple of water bottles and some granola bars and all will be fine.

We have a great deal of fun things to look forward to this summer: an Okanogan vacation, a week-long day camp at a local farm, and just general summer fun. (Hopefully some sunshine, although given the snow and frost we had this past weekend, that seems a bit too optimistic.)

I think the real reason I’m feeling a bit glum is that their year of preschool togetherness is finished. When I opted to put them in the same class, I worried a bit that they would be too dependent on each other, that there would be a bit too much time together. On the contrary, it has been wonderful for both of them. It was the absolutely right decision. But our days of our cozy little preschool are finished, and now it is time for the big school.

Well, not quite. We have a couple of months before that happens, and I need to ensure that I cherish this time, not dread it, and that I take the time to enjoy my children, in this last summer before starting at the big school.

Ever since Mark started soccer this year, he has absolutely loved it, but last night was the first time he was actually really engaged in the game – kicking the ball (in the right direction, even!) and really getting into the game. I breathed a sigh of relief, not that I particularly care about the game, but I was worried that I would pass on my genetic inability to play competently in a team sport.

My non-athleticism is somewhat legendary. In gym class, I was that girl who would scream and duck whenever the ball came in my direction, apparently foreshadowing the incident that would take place years later when I was in grad school playing slo-pitch. I took a line drive to the throat and ended up in the emergency room. I must note that the only reason I was playing slo-pitch is that there was a three-women-on-the-field rule, and the economics department was short on women. In an ironic, “even a blind squirrel gets a nut once in a while” moment, the one and only time I caught a ball in my two years of playing was on a third out during the championship game, which we subsequently won. Fortunately it was a third out, as I throw the ball almost as poorly as I catch it, and I would have had no idea who to throw it to.

I once read an article that hypothesized that people choose their partners, in part, because of traits they themselves do not possess in order to pass those traits down to their children. This may be true. I know that when I discovered my husband was the recipient of the ParticipAction Award of Excellence, I practically ripped my clothes off to procreate right there, I who only ever garnered the “Participant” stickers, I who developed mysterious “illnesses” on track and field day. I’m really hoping that his athletic genes, not mine, were the ones passed along to our children. But so far, the boys are way ahead of me in that department, so I’m pretty optimistic about it.

It was not a good start to the day. I seemed to have changed personalities overnight, to morph into a horrible shrew. It started last night when I was trying to sleep and my boa constrictor-like varicose veins became inflamed and painful. I tossed and turned and wondered WHY my husband could possibly sleep so soundly when his beloved wife was in PAIN and WHY didn’t he wake up and comfort me, dammit? This in spite of the fact that he physically cannot wake me up with his own concerns – a bedside coughing fit by him will allow me to sleep soundly, a throat clearing by one of the boys in a different room will have me flying to help them. BUT THAT’S DIFFERENT.

Anyway, I smartly figured out to get out of bed and get myself some nice nighttime aspirin, but by that time it was past eleven, and that may sound reasonable to normal people, to me it’s like four in the morning. Then I couldn’t sleep because I had such important thoughts as “Is it customary to give a gift to the soccer coach at the end of the season? Should I go ahead and organize that? Is Barkley old enough for Milk Bones?” and so forth until my body finally called my brain an idiot and I fell asleep.

When the alarm went off at five I actually decided not to go to the studio but sleep instead. Big mistake. Because when Jake climbed into bed with me at 6:10, he was like “Is it a moon day, Mom? Why are you here? Let’s go have Mini-Wheats!” Which was cute and all, and he totally has my number on the Mini-Wheats thing, but a) my husband was getting up and could have fielded these questions, b) I was still tired, and c) I like to have a little time to myself first thing in the morning and I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN UP WITH THE ALARM. That’s when I morphed into an incredibly irritable version of myself, not at all helped by the fact that my “ladies’ holiday” has not yet been “taken”, as it were, and I’m apparently back to my whacked-out 45 day cycle with insane mood swings. I know. My husband is a lucky guy.

I tried to turn things around by making chocolate chip cookies, but ended up being completely irritated with Jake’s attempts at helping, by rolling the dough into long sausages. “But why can’t they be sausage cookies?” he asked. Because, you imaginative child, I must crush you and your spirit in my quest to make perfectly round cookies, THAT’S WHY.

However, they had preschool this afternoon and I went for my bikini wax. And this is important: if you are bloated, pre-“ladies’ holidays”, and crabby, a bikini wax may not be the ticket for you. I’m going to leave it at that.

It’s June, and looking at the calendar this morning I realized that there are only six more preschool classes left until summer break. Only one child in the class will be in kindergarten with Mark next year, and none of them will be in Jake’s new pre-kindergarten program next year, and so I feel a bit nostalgic, already, about the children in the small, cozy, church-run preschool that they are currently attending. I know all the parents and I like them all, and I know all the children and their little quirks, and I will miss them next year.

However, I have noticed a funny thing in the preschool this year, which I did not notice last year. It is the emergence of the mean girl, the girl who befriends another girl one day, and excludes her the next. This really surprised me, because it’s preschool – I wasn’t expecting to see mean girls for a few years yet. For me, mean girls really surfaced, and I mean really surfaced, around Grade Five. I was the victim of a girl who was frequently cruel and then, suddenly, friendly. Years later, when I read “Cat’s Eye”, I had to put the book down and catch my breath, the memories were so raw.

In my experience, this is a female thing. It seems like it is always the girls who are excluding and ranking. The boys, it seems, have a “more the merrier” approach to life, much more inclusive and welcoming of newcomers into their environment than their female counterparts, who need to do some major evaluation first. This carries on into adulthood, where guys will invite pretty much anyone to watch the game, but women need to have serious conversations about whether or not to allow new members into their book club.

The thing about boys, though, is that they are stupid. Or maybe it would be better to say that they do really stupid things. Or maybe, in the interest of not offending my dear readers, I should say MY boys do really stupid things. I’m not even talking about the gale of laughter that occurs when the ketchup bottle makes a farting sound or the game that Jake plays in which he is a ghost covered in a blanket, but continually smacks himself into walls, due to his obscured vision.

The other day I heard hysterical laughter, coupled with the sound of squeaky dog toys. Since the dog was outside, I just figured the boys were playing with his toys. Then came the bloodcurdling scream, and there was Jake, staggering around with a giant welt on his forehead. It seems that they were taking turns lying in the dog bed and pelting each other with the soft squeaky toys, when Mark decided to use, in lieu of said soft squeaky toy, the hard pointed rubber bone “for vigorous chewers”. His aim was perfect.

His response? “Sorry Jake! I didn’t think that would hurt.”

Jake: “That’s okay. Let’s play again!”