And then it is May.
Forget the clever seed starting newspaper pots on Pinterest, just stop
by the local nursery and drop 75 bucks on plants and dirt. Unload the 50 pound bags of soil from the car
via wheelbarrow and drop it by the raised beds in the backyard. I can’t see the summer tote at first glance
when I pop my head up in the attic, so we’re stuck with the few t-shirts on hand
that never made it to the summer box last season. Notice during laundry that teenaged daughter
is chopping last fall’s must have jeans into too-short shorts anyway. Forget spring cleaning. The dog is shedding. No sense in that. Teacher gifts? Oh, I have plenty of time for that.
June. June arrives
with arrogance. June doesn’t just challenge
the busy mom, she raises the ante to “I bet I can kick you so hard you can’t get
up.” Bring it, my old friend. I know your M.O. I will not go down without a fight. My plight is often laughable. Planting my tomato plants in the community
garden after church in my skirt, barefoot and sinking in the sludge. Plants.
In. Done, June! Summer tote: check. Yes, it’s in the middle of the dining room
and the kids are charged to dig in to find clothes daily, but that counts. Spring cleaning…well, that may have to wait. Teacher gifts? I have plenty of time until the last day of
school.
I may have gotten cocky with the glow of my early battle win. She is gaining on me and I’m starting to weaken. Yes, I can produce the slide show of the 5th
grade class memories for the last day of school. How hard can that be? You take 1,000 submitted digital photos, edit
and sort them, couple them with meaningful music, and put it in a
slideshow. I am taking a class in that
anyway, it shouldn’t be hard.
Is June kicking me when I’m down again? I will not let that happen. Crazy hair day at school? I got this.
Some supergel and 10 minutes of twisting spikes. Strawberry picking season is almost
over? Kids, get in the car…now. We have to go to the fields. Children’s day program at church is the same
day as the annual boy scout trip to Six Flags? Of
course it is. Bring it. We’ll do both. I got this!
Father’s Day: crap. Quicky add
text and a cute quote to a three-generation image and print one hour at Rite Aid: done. Fifth grade concert. Wipe son’s tears from disappointment over not
having a solo. High school concert. Wipe own tears in realization that this may
be her last. Birthday snack at school. Flag Day Celebration. Field Day. Call Gram on her 86th
birthday. Chat a while. She forgets my kids’ names and
cries because of it. 
Make it to god-son's tball game. He sits in the outfield and picks at his shoelaces. Yells to me in the stands, "Hi, Aunt Amy!" Make it to god-daughter’s
softball play off game. It’s pouring. Six of us eat cheese fries huddled under one
umbrella. She feels our eyes on her. She loves having a cheering section. I love that she loves having us.
Kids are sick of me saying I really have to do my homework
tonight. I’m sick of saying hurry up or
we’re going to be late. It is the 11th
hour and I’m pulling all-nighters to complete daily tasks. Perhaps I should take a vitamin. I can’t find them. Add “clean out medicine cabinet” to spring
cleaning to-do list. I eat one of son’s
gummi vitamins.
Driving son to school, thoughts are like trapped fireflies
in a mason jar, so many lighting at once and then going out. I can’t wait for this school year to be over,
I burst out. Really, mom? Cause I’m kinda sad about it. It’s my last year of elementary school. I’m three-fourths bitter and one-fourth
sweet. Sigh. She did it.
June got me.
It is June 24th.
School is out. I tucked my
10-year-old in and fell asleep beside him.
Daughter got dropped at sleepaway camp this morning. I hugged her a dozen times at dropoff. And she let me. The dirt still sits in bags next to the
raised beds. The teachers all received
homemade origami lotus flowers handmade by my son. Perfect.
I’m just not going to keep score with June anymore.
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