2016 is going to be the Summer of Dammit. It’s only early July and thus far it’s been one dammit moment after another. (And I am not discussing current events. Enough people are “sharing” uncontrollably about that.)
It started with the broken arm. On top of adjusting to camp. On top of adjusting and readjusting to meds. Stella’s been all over the place and understandably so. There are parts of camp that are still awesome – the field trips, mainly. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday are all field trip days. They go all kinds of places, and often more than one in a day. Now that I’ve gotten over my fear that my 5 year old would be left stranded in a strange place, and now that she’s out of that F’ing hot pink cast, I love the field trips. The rest of it? Not so much. By the director’s admission, the camp size grew from a projected 30 to 52 kids, all aged 4 through 6. When the kids are “in,” they are in a giant cinder block room akin to a gymnasium. The noise level with that many kids in such a room is akin to cramming a marching band into a steel shipping container and ordering them to play Battle Hymn of the Republic. It’s intense. It’s insane. I couldn’t do it. Small wonder my 5 year old daughter with ADHD and sensory processing issues gets overwhelmed and acts like an asshole – even with meds.
Speaking of, in other Dammit news, my beautiful girl gave herself a most excellent forehead hickey yesterday morning. She put some bullshit popper thing that Chuck E Cheese is handing out (envision a racketball cut in half with Spongebob painted on it) concave side down on her forehead, essentially creating a 2” diameter suction cup. She looks like a low-profile unicorn, or the victim of a lamprey/teenage boy attack.
Perhaps inspired by this universal symbol of youthful asshole-ish angst, my purple-foreheaded daughter climbed into my car after camp yesterday acting like a complete ass. It was bad. It was so bad that the no-wine bullshit rule of the diet almost crumbled like the contents of a can of Pringles rattling around in the back of a pickup truck doing 60 on a dirt road. There was whining. There was yelling. I was told that I was a “terrible parent.” If that’s not cabernet-worthy, I don’t know what is. I should get a f’ing medal for abstaining. 4 more days after today. Dammit.
Felix is more subtle. A friend of mine from work just returned from her annual trip to see her family in Peach Country. Each year, I am lucky enough to be the recipient of a large basket of the most succulent fruit that can be had during summer months. My kids fight over it. During dinner last night, Felix showed his admiration by taking a straw from a juice pouch, sticking it into this spectacular fruit, and threading black olives through it. Of course it was Precious. It looked like a really sloppy Sputnik. Dammit.
And dammit, y’all, it’s hot. Yes, I know I live in the deep south. Yes, it’s hot here. This year it’s outdoing itself. It does make it hard to find stuff to do. All you want to do is loaf in front of the TV with the ceiling fan on high. I’m ready for fall, dammit.