This was going to be the summer.
The summer that I had a Pinterest-worthy garden.
The summer I fed my kids more home grown vegetables than anything else.
It was going to be the summer that I learned how to pickle and can shit.
It was going to be the summer that I cleaned out my kids backpacks and lunchboxes the afternoon they came home on the last day of school.
It was going to be the summer that my kids consistently read for 30 minutes a day and practiced their math facts and wrote in their journals.
And filled out those damn reading logs.
It was going to be the summer that we went to the library every Monday and even returned all our books on time.
It was going to be the summer where my kids entered school in August smarter and more organized than they left it in June.
Yes, in my head, it was going to be that summer.
Here we are, a third of the way through July, and it is apparent that this summer will not be that summer.
We haven’t been to the library yet.
That’s because we have $54 in fines at the moment and I am running out of cards to use that don’t have a balance in the double digits.
The fucking woodchucks have eaten pretty much everything I planted in my garden, and with six weeks of summer left to go, my kids have already eaten more nitrates than a person should consume in a lifetime.
The backpacks have not been cleaned out, and there is a very high probability that there are containers with a large amount of green fuzzy shit growing inside of them sitting inside my kids’ lunchboxes.
And those reading logs?
I have no idea where the fuck those damn things are.
And every time I think about looking for them online, I am driving in my car.
So this is not that summer.
This summer, the one one where I had set some ambitious goals for myself, has again dwindled down to one solitary goal.
Keep the kids alive.
And so far, so good.