As we were driving home from the final soccer game of the season yesterday morning, I looked in the rearview mirror and asked the kids, “So are you having a fun summer so far?”
“So far!” wailed Natalie, eight years and one day old. “Summer is over!”
“No it’s not,” I retorted. “Let me look at the calendar once we stop. School starts late this year, because Labor Day is late.”
I pulled out my new Blackberry at the next light (motto: More Horsepower in a Phone That I’ll Ever Need) and consulted my calendar app.
“There are three, four, five, six weeks of summer vacation left, Natalie! And we’ve only had four, six, seven so far. That means summer is just a little more than halfway over.”
“Oh,” she sighed, relief tingeing her voice. “That’s good.”
We pulled into the driveway. I pushed the automatic buttons to open all the doors on the minivan, unbuckled the baby from her car seat and started to unload the soccer gear from the field and the milk and bananas from the grocery store.
Natalie straddled her bike and said, “I guess six weeks is better than Dad. He only gets two weeks of summer each year.”
Connor, backing his own bike out of the garage, chimed in, “And Saturdays and Sundays.”
“True,” I said with a smile. “He does get weekends off. But everyone gets weekends. Except for people who work unusual shifts. Like Papa, since he was a pastor, always worked on Sundays. So he took Fridays off instead.”
I grabbed the sidewalk chalk out of Teyla’s mouth and turned to see Natalie wearing a quizzical expression.
“But Mom,” she said, “if you’re the cook, the driver, the ultimate survivor, the doctor, the cooker, your man thinks you’re a looker, you work all day and you never get paid, when do you get time off? Moms never get vacation. Or even Saturdays and Sundays.”
True, Natalie. True. We do it for the love of the job.
Besides, as Go Fish says, nobody could afford us anyway.
Kelly is a full-time mom to three kids and a part-time blogger at Love Well.