I’m the first in line to hump a teacher for all they do. I’m also first in line to have a retraining order filed when I hump an unsuspecting teacher.
Remembering that I’d chosen between nursing and teaching as majors makes me laugh especially hard these days, because I am SO not a teacher. Kids – even my own – make me twitchy. And I’m probably the LAST person on the planet you want ministering to young, impressionable minds.
Unless, of course, it’s teaching them how to ditch the 5-0, in which case, we’re ALL good.
School ended this week, the outcries of parents heard ’round the world. Kids seem to have a hard time going from a rigid structured environment to doing, well, nothing. My own crotch parasites can’t entertain themselves worth dick.
I distinctly recall summer vacation growing up. It started after I rode my bike home from school and said, “Hey Mom, school’s out, here’s my report card!” She’d glance at the report card (straight A’s as usual, except for PE, which I refused to participate in), toss it on the counter and say, “Okay, time to go outside.”
Then I was ushered outside to play, the door locked squarely behind me.
I was able to come in for lunch but then it was right back outside again.
I had one of those rusted-out old metal swingsets, probably teaming with lead paint, and when two people used the set, one of it’s poles would lurch unhappily out of the ground with a metallic screech. I’m surprised I didn’t inadvertently kill myself on the thing.
I also had a sandbox that neighboring cats and roaming raccoons shit in. We’d just fling the crusted-over poo out of the box and keep playing. We called them “poo crunchies.” It was generally the youngest’s job to handle the poo. Because obviously.
I recall many things about summer – the Ice Cream Man, (who even as a child seemed a little Uncle Pervy), cherry snow cones, selling lemonade on the street, non-stop games of Ghost in the Graveyard, chasing each other in Big Wheels up and down our street – but I don’t remember being bored.
And I certainly don’t remember my mother coming outside to play with me. In fact, no one’s mother came out to play with their kids. If they had, summer would have been a hell of a lot less fun.
My eldest is off in California until Tuesday while Alex and Amelia’s preschool teacher is on vacation until next Wednesday. It dawns on me that four and two are too young to simply boot outside to “play.” Especially since I don’t trust them not to find sledgehammers and break down a wall to get back inside and into Dora’s and her stupid fucking backpack’s loving grip.
My children are so bored that I cannot believe they haven’t drilled a hole into my head just to see what happens.
(spoiler alert: it’s empty in there)
I’ve come to terms with the idea I may not last the weekend (unless the rain goes away) and if I do, I’m buying their preschool teacher diamonds. LOTS of diamonds. And I’m buying myself a gigantic bottle of Valium. With a vodka chaser.
Summer, it seems, is why Mommy needs her vodka.
When I was a baby, I’d sleep so late in the mornings that my mother often rushed into the room, certain I was dead. And I was. DEAD TO THE WORLD.
As I grew up, it became clear that I was simply not a morning person. I’d wake up, stomp around the house for half an hour spitting venom at anyone who dared speak to me and then be…okay. Not great, but okay.
Rather than be offended by my mutterings of “I hate you, motherfuckers,” this delighted my family to no end. My brother and father often fought over who got to wake me up. My brother generally won.
So I’d be woken up to his frantic BANG BANG BANG on the door and just as I had rolled over, realizing that I was not, in fact, eating a castle made of marshmallows, he’d burst into my room.
Often, he’d include a pot to bang.
“IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP, BE-CKY, IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP NOW!” was a favorite, although generally it was this: “RISE, AND SHINE, AND BRING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY, RISE, AND SHINE, AND SING OUT THE GLORY-GLORY.”
By the time I’d lobbed a pair of shoes at his head, I was downright furious. It’s bad enough to have to live THROUGH a morning, but to be woken up to my brother’s off-key warbling of church songs? That was fucking TORTURE.
Once I’d gotten dressed and stomped downstairs, my family would greet me one by one with, “WHY HELLLLLO, BECKY. HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”
I’d let my middle finger respond.
While this brought no end of amusement to the rest of my family, I’d always hoped that I’d grow into a morning person. After I plotted their death by torpedo or frenzied shark attack, of course.
Not so much. Their untimely deaths OR an ability to enjoy anything before ten AM.
I’ve fought against it but it turns out that I will simply never be a morning person.
Mornings are bullshit.
This week, I have to be a morning person. My preschool teacher is gone for a week, which means that I have to entertain a very bored Alex and Amelia.
It’s gin and tonic o’clock somewhere, right?
Are you a morning person? Can you come over and watch my kids for me?
I’m entirely certain I was a difficult child. Especially knowing now* what an all-mighty, insufferable pain in the ass I can be, it’s not too surprising that my mother would try to off me. I’m only surprised that she’d wait until I was eighteen to do it.
While the rest of you Pranksters had cars as teenagers, I didn’t. Instead, I bummed rides from you. See how thoughtful I was? I could drive, I just didn’t care enough to buy my own car. I much preferred to spend my dough on cheeseburgers and jaunty hair accessories. Not much has changed.
For my high school graduation, my parents gave me a car.
Before you begin hurling coffee cups at your computer monitor in righteous indignation, I assure you that it was decidedly UN-like the car commercials where the graduate wakes up to a brand-new bow-wrapped Lexus in the driveway.
My parents gave me a two hundred dollar Dodge Shadow in a color I can only call “road chocolate.”
(that is a rough approximation of the Dodge Shadow I owned)
You’d think with a carpool lane consisting of Range Rovers, Porsches, and Jaguars, I’d have been underwhelmed by this dingy road-chocolate colored piece-of-shit car, and it couldn’t have been farther from the truth.
Sure, the window didn’t roll all the way up and okay, I had to put a portable boom box in the front seat if I wanted to listen to music, and sure, the seatbelt didn’t quite….well, buckle, but it didn’t matter. The car was mine. I loved it. Pink puffy hearts.
I’d tool around in my jalopy, cold in the winter and hot as balls in the summer, and once school started, I drove it to and from my college classes.
One particularly hot autumn day, I approached a long line of cars stopped in front of me and began to eeeeeeeeasse onto the brakes. I felt something snap. So I eased more. Then I eased even more. By the time I realized I was fresh out of easing room, I veered off the road onto the gravel shoulder, the brakes were jammed down to the floorboard.
The brakes were d-e-a-d busted.
My mother, probably off buying cyanide to poison me with, didn’t pick up when I walked to the nearby elementary school to use the phone, so I had to call my boyfriend’s mother, who graciously came and rescued me.
I never saw my road-chocolate car again. I went back to bumming rides off my friends until the day I became suicidal and bought a two-seater cherry-red Honda del sol.
It was a bonus: a sweet ride that doubled as a coffin (in the event of an accident).
More importantly, it had a six-disc changer in the back. Even then, I was aware of the things that REALLY mattered in life: like air conditioning and the ablity to listen to all my Britney CD’s AT ONCE.
*teenagers are, of course, certain of their awesomeness and anyone who says otherwise is clearly a Communist.