Old School Summer

The two older kids just finished two weeks of Gymnastics Camp. This week, my daughter will start two weeks of Girl Scout Camp and the boy will do another week of gymnastics camp. The total cost being at least $400, for the month of June, with two more months of summer to go.

As I write the checks and sit in more carpools this summer, my thoughts go to my Dad. My Dad must be rolling in his grave. He would have never spent that kind of money on us for "summer camp." See, summer was a lot different when I was a kid. Growing up in Chicago, there were two seasons...winter and construction. You never went anywhere, except for in the neighborhood. Summer started promptly at Memorial Day and ended exactly on Labor Day. We'd get snow from about Halloween to April. The summer was never wasted, yet never planned...it was simple and most importantly cheap.

I came from a blue collar, town home neighborhood. The houses were stuck together and everyone knew every one's business. There were no such thing as "stay-at-home moms." Every parent worked shift hours, mostly 12 hours a day. The term"Latch-key Kid" didn't make sense, because we all were one. My brother and I were home alone all day in the summer. There were no parents, no rules, no schedules and no camps.

I remember going swimming from 8am-8pm, by myself, at the age of seven. There were no floatees, safety gear or pool noodles. I never wore a lick of sunscreen and always squeezed lemon juice in my hair to make it blonder. Then when the pool closed, I played with the neighborhood kids catching lighting bugs and throwing crab apples at moving cars. Bug spray was for wimps...My legs and arms were full of mosquito bites. I'd scratch them until they bled and showed them off to my friends. I guess, Lyme disease wasn't invented yet. I remember going to bed at 10:00pm and waking up in the same dirty swimsuit I wore the day before. This was my childhood summer...how the hell did I survive?

Now that I am a parent, I think to myself, how did my parents let me do all that? How did I not drown, get skin cancer, get hit by a car, get Lyme disease, or even Malaria?! Were there no pedophiles in the early 80's? Why wasn't I abducted and left for dead by the railroad tracks? I'm sure my parents thought kids weren't worth stealing, or something.

So, here I sit in an air conditioned gym, paying someone to teach my kid a cartwheel, just to come home and watch yet another hour of Sponge Bob. What is wrong with me? Why can't I let my kid do what I did for the summer. I decide to try it...So, I go home and load on the sunscreen, strap on the flotation device, spray on the deep woods bug spray. It takes 20 minutes just to get ready to go swimming for 40minutes. I'm tired, and Sponge bob is on, gotta make dinner.

How I wish I could give my kids an "Old School Summer," but I can't let go...so I'll spend more money and hopefully they'll keep having fun, after all there's only two more months left.

The Dance

Saturday was My 7 year old's Ballet recital. This is an annual event that we have been participating in since she was only three. My main purpose of her being in Ballet was to help her develop and improve of her gross motor skills. Since she was born, her fine motor skills were well ahead of her gross motor skills. Cutting with scissors came easier then skipping rope. Ballet has been a great source of confidence for her. She truly loves her Ballet experience. Her teacher says she is the best in her class and shows a great amount of discipline. I guess all that yelling at her at home, has some sort of benefit.

I'm at the Arts Center, with my daughter early, and we walk around looking at the fundraising tables. I buy her a single rose for good luck and a special present, proceeds going to charity. We go outside and take some pictures against the big Greek looking columns. I have hired a babysitter at home for the boys, so I'm feeling pretty mellow.

It's getting more crowded as people arrive. We decide to go ahead and use the restroom before a line starts to form. As we push the door open, a plume of cheap hairspray drifts into our faces. There are four girls with their moms in there. One is plastering the daughter's bun to her head, one is layering on the lip gloss and the other one is rubbing self tanner onto the kindergartner's face. My daughter finds a stall and goes in. I lean on the wall and just listen to these stage moms "prep" these pre-madonnas for their big performance. These woman are pretty pathetic. They are obviously living their dreams through their kids. I think to myself...I'm glad I'm not one of "those" parents.

Ballet recitals are special, but a Southern Ballet recital is a freakin' holiday. Southern families show up dressed up like it's Easter Sunday. High heels, hats and the smell of Old lady perfume just fills the auditorium. There are seat saving and picture taking. It's standing room only. The lights dim and the music begins.

My daughter's class is scheduled for the 18th performance. So, we sit a watch 17 other people's kids. It seems like forever. I'm getting antsy. I never did use the restroom earlier. Finally, I see her silhouette get into first position on a dark stage.

I'm excited to see her, but at the same time I'm nervous as hell. I pray she doesn't trip, slip or that her hair bun doesn't fall out. Is that a stain on her tights? She's the third from the left and the music starts. I'm at the edge of my seat watching her and secretly comparing her the the others in her class. In my mind I'm not really looking at my daughter, but looking at how much better she was then the others...oh, look that girl slipped and that one missed a cue. And just like that it was over.

My husband and I rush out behind stage to get her. We are so proud of her! She definitely was the best one up there. I secretly start thinking of colleges with good dance scholarships and her rise to stardom. We escort her back to her classroom to turn in her ballet skirt...the whole way praising and gushing all over her. We get there and she turns to me and says, "Mama, can you take me to the restroom, again?"

My heart, just skips a beat as I push open the door... I look in the mirror and think...I guess we're all one of "those" parents, at least once a year.