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.

Saving Big Man From Freshman Friday

Oh, shit. I’m late and Big Man’s waiting for me to pick him up at middle school. I always do when it’s raining. My cell phone rings. Trying to keep my eyes on the road I fumble for it.

“Mom, where are you?” Even though he’s 13, he’s always had this very adult, radio-announcer voice that usually makes him seem in control. But I can hear the panic.

“I’m almost there,” I say as I slam the brakes of my Ford Explorer. There’s a million parents doing pick-up in the pelting rain. It’ll be a good five minutes before I reach the front of the school.

“What’s up, honey?!!!”

“It’s Freshman Friday!”

Okay. THAT explains the terror in his tone. Freshman Friday happens near the end of the school year. It’s that one day when the 11th grade boys get to paddle an 8th grader. Or at least, that’s the suburban legend. It’s never happened – as far as I know. But the myth outweighs the reality. Especially when that older neighbor boy that Big Man usually shoots hoops with suddenly repeats his annual, empty claim to paddle his butt.

As I get in line behind a bunch of cars, Big Man spots me and runs over.

“I made it,” he says as he collapses into the front passenger seat. He locks the door. He’s NEVER done that before. I’m relieved he feels safe though clearly, his hind quarters aren’t the worse for wear.

“Honey, what exactly do they hit you with?” He’s so serious about this. But really, I can’t imagine how he could be pummled at school – especially since the principal who rules with an iron attitude has put the kibosh on this hazing ritual.

“I don’t know. Paddles, I guess.”

Now the line of cars snakes past the school’s front doors, where a larger-than-usual crowd of eighth graders are nervously clustering and chattering. Obviously, Big Man isn’t the only one looking for protection. Suddenly, some girls let out high-pitched screams that make me jump. I follow their gaze behind me, expecting to see a posse of heavily-muscled, hairy-calved 11th graders approaching the middle school entrance brandishing two-by-fours studded with nails.

I don’t see a thing. They’ve whipped themselves into a frenzy.

Big Man and I leave them screaming in the rear view mirror. But we’re not safe yet.


“Look Mom! There’s an undercover cop car!” He points to a black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street.

“How do you know?” I try not to sound skeptical.

“Because it’s a Crown Victoria. All undercover cops drive Crown Victorias.”

Listening to him, I just melt. We are partners making a great escape. The dangers of the day have warranted police protection. And, the comfort of mom. God, it’s great to be needed.

We finally hit the open road at 20 miles an hour (it is, after all, a school zone). And it dawns on me that something’s going on here that hasn’t happened in a while. A long while. Big Man is happy to be with me. Instead of the usual indifference I get at pick-up, today he’s grateful that I’ve shown up. For one brief shining moment in his teenage life, I can do no wrong. I have saved him from Freshman Friday.


Disclaimer: Big Man read this and wants everyone to know that this is my version of Freshman Friday, not his. But he's all right with me publishing it. Thanks, honey!