Am I Really Trying to Grill S’mores from an Algebra Book Bonfire?


The smells of Elmer’s Glue, pencil shavings, and over-tenured teachers are in the air. Target, Staples, and Walmart are vying to be the school supply headquarters. Pottery Barn Kids is out of 98% of their backpacks and lunch bags (trust me on this).

Aaaaaaand just like that, it’s back to school.

I am not ready.

Also, where the hell did summer go?

The school year seems to be starting earlier and earlier each year. I heard a rumor that next year classes will commence on July 6th. Like China.

I don’t know about you, but I am putting my foot down on this early school year. Even the full-time working parents are over it, and their kids need to go someplace. All day.

Back to School

At this young age (8), going back to school for my daughter means I am also going back to school. Her homework, means I have homework. By homework I mean yelling, “Sit down and do your homework!” Then making her erase all her misspelled words and start over. Then moping and crying a little. By me.

Going back to school means going back to activities we blew off most of the summer. Oh yeah, you take gymnastics. Now we have to be somewhere at 4 p.m. every Wednesday. Oh, piano is Monday? Wait, you have Girl Scouts on Monday. Well, maybe we can switch the day to Tuesday. No, that won’t work, you have Taekwondo on Tuesday. Eff it.

Going back to school means spending money. A lot of money. All on stuff I don’t get to keep. For the amount of money spent on random school carnival wear and apparatus, magazine drives, teacher gifts (okay, that’s a good one), school lunch fund, random school promotional materials, social clubs, socks (we always need those), and just giving money to the school because aren’t we nice – I could go to Fiji and stay at a resort. Okay, not Fiji, but maybe Austin for the weekend. With a new pair of pants.

Going back to school means volunteering. A lot. Oh wait, I mean, ignoring emails about various volunteer “opportunities,” then saying things like, “I didn’t get that email.” While peeling out of the school parking lot. At five miles per hour (it’s the speed limit there).

I need more summer.

See you next year.

See you next year.

Remember when we were in grade school? The summers seemed to last forever. Come August, even the kid who couldn’t spell was ready to go back to school. I remember being at my neighborhood pool, swatting flies away from the Fudgsicle dripping down my arm, while listening to Prince’s Purple Rain album playing on a loop, thinking, “Yeah, I’m kind of over this.” It was a good thing too because by summer’s end my one-piece was kind of over it too [Cue over-stretched, saggy-assed swimsuit].

Even as a parent, in summers past I have been ready to shove…er…escort my child out the door to school.

I need another week. Or two.

I know how you feel sweetheart.

I know how you feel sweetheart.

I need to slather my child in SPF 50. Just one more week. I need to say to my daughter, “No, you cannot have a popsicle. It is nine a.m.” Just one more week. I need to complain about the lame summer television show options (except for The Leftovers and Ray Donovan). Just one more week.

So I might have to start a movement down here in Texas: Operation Start School After Labor Day. By September, teachers will be ready, parents will be ready, and students will be ready. Homework will actually start to look good.

Nope. No it won’t. I took it too far.