It’s that wonderful time of year.
The time when, bless it, you step outside and your skin fries faster than a piece of chicken in a 400 degree oven.
The time when, bless them, your family comes to stay for at least 13 days with at least 14 children and no more than 600 square inches per person.
The time when, bless it, there is nowhere to go and nothing to do and the swimming pool the size of your pinkie finger you inflated for the 14 kids in your back yard somehow manages to extend to kill all of your grass.
I have a proposition: summer vacation should not be in summer. It should be in November. And March. And May. The most beautiful months of the year, when you can go outside and pretend there not 16 children in your house (did your sister-in-law give birth to two more last night, or do they belong to the neighbors?) and 15 cats and a dog named Terrified.
I realize this is not a new thought (thank you creators of the year-round school), but for some reason the whole in-season vacation
thing makes sense to me today.
Or it could just be the heatstroke I picked up in the yard while I surveyed the dead grass this morning?