Try not to judge me too harshly for my uncontained excitement. These are my grandkids. My youngest child is 27. I should be resting on a beach somewhere, not raising children for the 33rd consecutive year. I'm tired. I'm cranky. I'm menopausal.
The past few months have claimed the last scraps of my sanity. Yes, some stay-at-home moms/grandmoms look forward to summer. I'm not one of them. I do enjoy not having to struggle to get the kids out of bed at a reasonable hour. And not fighting about homework is nice. But having absolutely no time to myself makes me long for the first day of school. Sure, I love these children. Can't I love them from afar? At least for a few hours a day?
This year has been especially difficult. For various reasons we weren't able to take a vacation. I really needed a vacation. It's been the summer from hell. I just wanted a chance to breath.
Chatty Cathy, age nine, has been following me around since June, unable to stop talking. Somewhere in a medical journal there must be a name for this disorder. All I know is: I can't take it any longer. I love her dearly. But if I were to go deaf tomorrow, it wouldn't be soon enough.
Lovesick Lucy, age 13, cycles from not speaking to me at all, yelling at me about some perceived injustice, or talking my ears off about the latest object of her affection. I love her with all my heart. But there's only room for one hormonal crazy woman in this house. And I was here first.
I can't find it in the book of Genesis in my Bible, but I'm pretty sure somewhere in those first six days, God created school.
