We’ve just gotten into the swing of the school schedule, and here comes Labor Day.
I love a holiday just as much as the next person, but when it comes so close to re-introducing my children to the concept of getting up when I tell them it’s time, dressing in both pants and shirts (I’ll pretend I don’t notice the lack of underwear), and grabbing everything they need for school (someone always forgets something), Labor Day can become a bit of annoyance.
On school days, my children must be dragged out of bed at 6 a.m., hurried down to breakfast, and ushered out the door. But on Labor Day, they were knocking on my door, begging for breakfast at 5 a.m.
Get your own breakfast.
That’s what I wanted to say. But the last time I told them that, the kitchen was dusted with a fine film of raw oats, I almost fell into a milk puddle the size of Rhode Island, and a bowl of sludge—presumably oats and milk, though I can’t be completely certain—waited by the sink, and my sons were all passed out from extreme hunger.
In other words, things didn’t go so well. And I still had to fix breakfast.
So on Labor Day, I dragged myself out of bed at a ridiculous hour for a holiday, slid down the stairs, and fumbled around in the kitchen for a light switch. Once I found it, my oldest son jumped out from behind a door leading into a dark room, and I had to visit the bathroom.
How many times do I have to tell him it’s not funny to scare me like that?
He laughed himself into the garage while I delayed their breakfast by fifteen purposeful minutes spent examining my fingernails. Every time someone asked me why breakfast wasn’t yet ready, I told them to go ask their brother. He’d already forgotten what he’d done.
I love spending time with my kids, but it always feels like Labor Day comes too close to the first week of school to really enjoy the break. Who wants to start the back-to-school boot camp only to restart it two weeks later?
Last year my twins were kindergarteners. They started school on a Tuesday. The next week was Labor Day. It took me months to convince them that they had to go to school on Mondays. Yes, every Monday. Except Labor Day. And Thanksgiving week. And—oh, forget it.
This whole summer I haven’t been able to get any work done, and I was looking forward to getting started again—but a holiday delayed my productivity. And here’s what happened during this holiday that is no longer summer but is also not quite the school year (at least not the regular one).
1. They interrupted me 12.5 billion times. My door, which I close when I am working, was a revolving door. They would talk to me, but I have noise-canceling headphones, so they just thought I was ignoring them. Wonderful for their self-esteem, I’m sure.
I still feel guilty.
2. They were wildly wild. It seems like Labor Day always announces itself with either pouring-down rain or obscene temperatures here in South Texas; sending them outside is usually out of the question, to the detriment of all in this house.
3. The routine went down the drain. Tomorrow morning they won’t know what it means to “wake up, it’s time for school,” and we’ll start the fun all over again.
I guess it doesn’t hurt to practice. Practice, after all, makes…
Well, it makes us, at the very least, good at trying. That’s about all you can ask as a parent.
(Photo by This is Now Photography.)
