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.

Anyway.

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.