It's here! It's here! The moment the kids dream of and the parents cry about. The last day of school seems to come faster and faster every year when you're 39. (Unless you're a 39-year-old teacher. In that case I imagine that the last day of school probably takes about 39 years to arrive each May.)
I always find it so hilarious how different the first week of school is versus the last week. At the beginning of the year I had it so together! I laid out clothes, I had lunches (representing all of the food groups and put in cute containers!) made the night before, I even woke up with a smile ready to send them off into the world organized and full of joy! Okay, the joy part might be a little bit hyperbolic but in my heart I was joyful and I imagine in their hearts they were, too, and that's good enough for me.
The last week of school is basically the opposite of that. I don't care if the cafeteria is serving imitation fish sticks and pea soup, they're buying it. Even if I wanted to make them a lunch (which I don't), my pantry is so bare of "lunch friendly supplies" (aka individually-wrapped, quadruply-priced snacks), it would be a pretty sad lunch. "Have a good day at school, honey! Enjoy your raw sweet potato, croutons, and baking chocolate! Kiss kiss!"
As for clothes, it's pretty much a scavenger hunt. The probability of finding clothes in their closet this week of school is pretty slim. It's a fun little game we like to play in the mornings called "Find the Outfit." Good places to look: The couch, the laundry basket on the floor, the ottoman, the dryer, the washer (I can dry a shirt pretty fast), the hamper, the floor in their room ... I'm not that picky.
By the time this week arrives every year I'm just simply burned out. School is over, sports practices are over, and I've legitimately run out of gas.
So while my kids will be home all day driving me completely insane, it's not a totally unwelcome change. I can sleep as late as I want. The kids can run around in their swimsuits all day. They can make their own lunch. I don't have to drag them to practices and games.
Basically, in summer, I can be the laziest piece of garbage mom I was always meant to be, with little-to-no residual guilt. (Which is easily washed away with a glass or three of wine while I'm sitting on the deck watching them run around like animals with water guns waiting for my dinner to be grilled.) I guess my sanity is a small price to pay for reaping those kinds of rewards.
Happy summer, kids.