Little Man Has The Summertime Blues

School’s been out for a total of three days now and here’s what Little Man had to say to me this afternoon:

“I hate summer vacation.”

Why is that, Little Man? Because today was the first day you REALLY didn’t have anything to do? Does everything pale in comparison to your long weekend in the Hamptons at Uncle Cool Dude’s house (a.k.a. Chez HOTH for ‘high on the hog’)? Do you miss playing Frisbee on the beach, water basketball in the pool, feasting on great food, drinking lots of fabulous wine (that would be me) and lounging around the backyard bonfire roasting marshmallows and counting constellations?

Okay, Little Man. I’ll give you that. There is no competing with the Hamptons.

But what about yesterday? The day after we got home? You got to hang out with one of your best friends. You played video games and watched inappropriate movies. You walked to the pizzeria for lunch. You played mini-golf.

Not so today. Today was a different story. Not a friend to be found. The fallback neighborhood gang went MIA. You refused my offer to go to the town pool. The one we paid a gazillion dollars to join.

There’s just no pleasing you, Little Man.

So here comes the part where I tell you what my mother (your grandma) did back when I was your age and I told her I was bored with my summer vacation.

Nothing.

A BIG, FAT nothing.

I know. You’re shocked and incensed. You can’t even believe that a mother could react that way toward her child. That’s downright abusive.

In actuality, I’d never even bother to tell grandma I was bored. BECAUSE IT WAS NO USE.

You see, Little Man, grandma never got the memo that being an activities director was part of her job description. As foreign a concept as this might seem, Uncle Reggie, Aunt Ginger and I entertained ourselves.

Here’s some stuff we came up with when we were bored: We’d strap roller skates over our Keds and turn the garage into a roller rink. Around the support poles we’d careen to the tune of Mitch Miller’s Roll Out the Barrel.

Sometimes we’d recruit the neighborhood kids and put on elaborate musicals inspired by grandma and grandpa’s record collection (The King and I and Andy Williams’ Hawaiian Wedding Song were our most often used soundtracks).

When we couldn’t think of anything else to do we’d lie on the grass and stare up at the clouds.

One time on the lawn I got this brilliant idea. I would conduct a smell test. It went like this: Uncle Reggie would close his eyes, I’d hold something up to his nose and he’d guess what it was.

The first thing was a flower. He passed. The next thing was something else I don’t remember. The last thing was a piece of dog doo that I speared with a stick. I can still remember how he instantly recoiled when the smell hit his nostrils, then his look of utter disgust and betrayal. As the evil older sister, I thought it was hilarious. But I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.

Okay. Maybe this all sounds lame-ass to you (who the hell are Mitch Miller and Andy Williams anyway?). But we were having a blast (except for Uncle Reggie during the smell test).

What I’m trying to say here Little Man, is take your 6th grade attitude and adjust it a notch. You’ve got a long summer ahead of you. You’re gonna have to use your imagination. And if you get stuck, there’s plenty of dog doo in the backyard. Round up the neighborhood gang and get to it.