…and this is what it looks like.

On our first dinner out together in months, Derrick thought it would be funny to take this picture without warning, then plaster it all over Facebook.

But don’t worry, my faithfuls.  He’ll pay.  Oh, he’ll pay.

(And the food was fabulous.  I know, because I ate all of it, except for the bread.  Derrick hogged on that big-time.)

Today, the kids went back to school.

The First Day of School has always been bittersweet for me, as I’m sure it is for you.  This day marks the end of summer and with it, the end of just a little more childhood innocence.  This day means replacing slow, sunny mornings with rushed, chilly ones.  And, of course, this day means my children are one year closer to growing up and leaving me all alone in the world, facing nothing but my inevitable decay and demise.  (Sometimes my thoughts get a little dark on the first day of school.)

This morning, however, I must admit that I felt little of the annual emotional sway that the First Day of School usually brings.  This morning I didn’t feel tender and nostalgic; I felt grumpy and tired.  We had a lovely dinner and home evening last night before tucking our excited kids into bed, and I really thought we were all ready for the Big Day of school come morning.  Boy, was I was wrong.

Like any brilliant mother, I chose this morning to try my very first power weights class at the gym near our house.  The class began at 5:15.  I made it there on time and enjoyed the class, but by the time I got home at 6:30, I already needed a nap.  I was tired.  And grumpy.  I walked in the front door only to be assaulted by the disaster of a house that had been put to bed neat-as-a pin the night before.  I swear the place was clean twelve hours ago.  How can my home look like so Huxtable at 9 pm and so Swamp People at 7 am?  What is happening while we sleep?   Standing in the foyer, I saw how my first childless day in three months would roll out:  dishes and laundry.  This did little to improve my mood.

Dropping my keys on the counter, I heard two showers running and knew immediately that the girls were behind schedule.  I stopped in front of each girls’ bathroom door to give them a gentle reminder.

“Hurry up!  Remember, breakfast and scriptures at seven!”  No response.

“Come on, girls, remember?  We’re re-starting family scriptures today!”  Our family has mastered the Family Scripture Re-Start.  Reading scriptures together every morning invites a warm and calming spirit into our home.  I wanted to make sure we started our new school year with that spirit, so I screamed through the door:

“DID YOU HEAR ME?  BREAKFAST AND SCRIPTURES AT SEVEN!!”

“Okay, Mom!  Geez!”  

Ingrates.

I lumbered up the stairs and got myself into a quick shower.  I caught my reflection in the mirror and noted bitterly that I didn’t look a bit skinnier than I had before my weights class this morning.  After my shower I threw on some fatpants and realized I had failed to lay out Ethan’s First Day of School outfit.  Let me rephrase:  All of the back-to-school clothes I’d bought him last week were still rumpled  and stuffed in the Target bags that littered my closet floor.  I grabbed the bags and dumped everything across my already messy bed.  I decided I’d make up for my carelessness by letting him choose his own clothes for the day.  Armed with such power, he promptly passed over the classy polo shirts and pin-striped shorts I loved for the five-dollar graphic tee and green Circo jobbies I’d purchased as backup.  I  handed him the clothes and silently talked myself out of ironing the wrinkled shirt.  (To do this, I used my standard excuse for all things negligent regarding Ethan:   “He’s a boy, for Pete’s sake–let him be a boy!”  That line gets me out of a lot of work.) Pulling the t-shirt over his head, I heard him mumble through the nearly translucent cotton:

“Mom?  I don’t want to summer to be over.”  I couldn’t think of any viable response to this, so I said, “I know, bud.  Me neither.”  (Way to talk him off the ledge, Mom.)

We headed downstairs for breakfast and scriptures.  It was now 7:20.  I yelled at the girls to “GET DOWN HERE!” and asked Derrick to read aloud from his phone since I’d lost my scriptures two days ago.  (What kind of an adult loses their scriptures?  And have you seen them anywhere?)  The kids finally gathered round, except for Rachael, who was going on Hour Two in her bathroom.  She eventually made it to the table and, before sitting down, asked if she could be excused to finish getting ready. “No!”  I said.  “Sit down and listen.”  She sighed and obeyed, and I felt a twinge of guilt, remembering how important primping time was at age 13, especially on The First Day of School.  But I was resolved to be grumpy and didn’t give in.   Derrick took out his phone as the kids poured themselves milk and heaped their plates with eggs, talking excitedly over their father as he began to read something-or-other of a spiritual nature.  He paused for a moment while the kids chatted on.

“Is anyone even listening to me?” he asked quietly, looking around the table.  The kids ignored him and kept talking away.

“No.” I answered over the din.  “No one is listening to you.”

“Then I’m not going to bother reading,” he said, putting his phone down.  I respected his position, but, um…did he think that was some sort of a threat to the kids?

“Okay.”  I said, almost cheerfully.  He raised his eyebrows in surprise.  I am usually a Nazi about breakfast and scriptures.  But I still had to make the kids’ lunches–something we’d decided would become one of their morning jobs this school year, along with making their beds and being at the table by 7.  As of The First Day of School, we were 0 for 3.

I started pulling out chips and peanut butter when Rachael announced that she needed to be to school extra early today to secure a long locker from one of the teachers.  I kindly responded by telling her “No way–you should have told us this last night.”  Her good father stepped in and said he could drop her off if she’d hurry and get ready.  Magically, she and her sister pulled themselves together in five short minutes and ran out to the car, giddy with excitement.

The door closed behind them and it was just me and E.  Standing in my hurricane of a kitchen, I thought of all the blogs I’ve read recently about beautiful back-to-school breakfasts, homemade cards for the kids, and laminated charts mapping out the Family Mission Statement for the next nine months.  I thought about how my dismal mood may very well have ruined this special morning for my children.  I thought about how my children–my precious, darling children–deserved better.  And then suddenly, with an insensitivity that only comes with age, I found myself thinking, “Who cares?”

No, really–who cares?  The kids are thrilled to be back in school (even Ethan, despite his complaints.)  It’s the grandest adventure of their lives right now, and their dreams and desires are pinned on all that’s happening in that Great Big World beyond our front window.  They don’t care about a tidy house or even a cheery mom.  Do you remember your own mother’s mood on your first day of 2nd, or 6th, or even 8th grade?  I don’t.  Kids are so into themselves–in a good and right way–that we moms can mess up big-time and, short of honking the horn to blow them a kiss when we drop them at the curb, they’ll barely even notice.  And for all my angst over motherhood and childhood and self-esteem and chore charts and losing my temper and everything else I’m doing wrong or at least not doing as well as you are, the big thing I need to remember is that my kids don’t care.  They want to feel safe, they want to feel a little independent, and they need to feel a lot loved.  And I think even the most flippant children understand that their tired, grumpy, yelling mother really does love them.  She’s just having a bad day, and she’ll show her love better tomorrow.  And I will.

To prove me right, they all left for school with big grins on their faces. And it turned out to be a great day for all of us. My kids are pretty cool people. Not afraid to say it.

Oh yeah, and we couldn’t find Ethan’s shoes this morning.  Not kidding.

Back in May, I forgot to mention that I would be taking a hiatus from blogging this summer.  (I know…you were biting your nails, wondering where I’d gone.)  You see, last spring I took on more tutoring jobs, and in conjunction with this, my family’s schedule was bursting at the seams.  I do not consider my children overscheduled, but I’ve decided that I’m overscheduled, running them to and fro and back again while Derrick is perpetually MIA.  So between work and kids and sports and music and church and laundry and grocery shopping and cooking up said groceries, I found myself quite busy.  In other words:  my life is just like yours.  Blogging had become one more “to-do” that I couldn’t get done, so I decided to cut the fat, so to speak, no guilt required (and no fat really cut, if you must know.  I’m still jigglin’.)  In an uncharacteristically decisive move, I decided I would not touch my blog all summer.  I’d let myself miss it for awhile and then return to it with full gusto come fall.  (Amazing how decisive I can be when the decision resulting is laziness.)

The best part?  That break did me good.  I wasn’t enjoying the writing like I once did, and I was always frustrated that I couldn’t get to it before ten o’clock at night, since summertime meant that I was dealing with spending time with my dear children until all hours.  It was hard to get on the computer when one of my kiddos was either a) on the computer themselves, or b) constantly in my face needing my loving attention.   In the end, my need for sleep and peace won out.  And I’m so glad it did, because now fall is here and I am here and you are here and I feel like I’m in a place where I can finally commit to this relationship.  Are you?  I hope so.  Because I’ve missed you.  And here is what I was doing instead of blogging:

Enjoying the Kid’s Olympics at our annual family reunion in McCall, Idaho.  Each family was required to bring a homemade flag representing the country of their choice.  The red and white flag from Denmark is ours.  My mom brought some old fabric from home and I ripped the white sateen and superglued it on the red sateen the night before the Parade of Athletes.  The superglue came undone and the white cross fell off, so I resorted to safety pins at the last minute.  It was awesome.  (And you thought I wasn’t crafty.  I’m so pinning this.)  Way to pray for your team, Jul.

Passing the Holey Board championship onto my darling cousin Hilary and her husband Stu.  And yes:  it a hurt a little bit.

Hanging with my sister’s fabulous family in the pool when they came for a visit in June.  Hello, World–meet Allie.  (And yeah, she really is that cute.)

Cucumber spa by the pool, courtesy the girls’ prep work.  Yep–that’s Grandma Cindy.  She was the only adult to indulge with the girls.  And we wonder why they like her best.

Celebrating Meg’s 11th birthday.  The 44oz cup and bag of Doritos are slight photobombs, as well as they Mystery Hand presenting our tween daughter to the world.

Our annual pilgrimage to Seaside.  Derrick took several days off work and we did nothing but take walks to the beach and watch movies at night.  It was glorious.

With our cute cousins, headed to the beach through Grandma’s beautiful neighborhood.  “Call me maybe!” became Ethan’s tag line for the summer.  Should I be worried?

Rachael’s swim practice, at 6:15 a.m., every day.  The routine was to drive over to Pasco, drop her off at the pool, then run along the river while she swam for an hour.  Every single morning, we were both silent and grumpy on the drive over, and hyper and animated on the drive home.  We came home, made breakfast, and practiced piano (I tried, too) before anyone else was even up. Who knew that this would be one of our favorite things about summer?  I am proud of Rache for getting herself up every day and never missing a practice except when we were out of town.  Already looking forward to this time together next year.

Paintballing with the Short family.  The kids and I spent a week with them at their lovely new home in Salem.  They live on a huge, beautiful piece of property and offer free Saturday paintball to anyone who’s interested.  Jason (the dad) does this every other Saturday, all year long.  He provides nearly all of the paint and gear for gazillion boys and their fathers, and then leads them all into battle for hours.  Isn’t that generous of him?  Those boys must be in heaven.  Our visit fell on a weekend, so here’s Megan all geared up.  A bit terror-ista, but still pretty cute.  And, as always, our time with the Shorts was perfect.  Rachel (Short) and I took full advantage of our teenage daughters’ babysitting capacity and snuck away for lunch and shopping pretty much every day.  We worked in a trip to Lincoln City and Woodburn (outlets, natch) as well.  We watched hours of junk t.v. at night while the kids rotted their brains on video games downstairs.  We ate whatever we wanted, and justified it all with relaxing jogs through her gorgeous neighborhood in the morning.  My dreams will forever be pointed to returning, someday, to my Week With the Shorts.

Spending tons and tons of time in the pool this summer.  Lots of friends joining us.  That was my very favorite thing about this summer.

Sleeping late–and sunburned–in mom’s bed while Dad was out of town.  This happened more than once.

Could you kick kids this cute out of your bed?  Me neither.

I tried hard to keep this summer simple and relaxed, and I think we achieved that.  (It’s important to set goals.)  Glad to be back on the blog, sad that real life starts tomorrow.

Sweet Dreams, Summertime.  See you next year.