The month of August is not my friend.
(Picture a thirty-six year old woman looking like a disgruntled three year old in time-out. Welcome to my month.)
Now. Nothing very bad has happened. In fact, some very pleasant things have filled the unseasonably comfortable days. Both girls learned to swim, beloved family members visited from afar, and our “chick experiment” (an attempt to get a broody hen to adopt 10 mail-order chicks) went smoothly. I went running with friends more than once, and my husband made lots of good Mexican (Indian, Turkish, Vietnamese…) food. On paper, not a bad month.
And so I keep asking myself… why am I in such a bad mood? I have been certifiably grumpy nine days out of ten, and today when our mother’s helper came (definition: a babysitter who is old enough to play with your kids but not to watch them solo, so you just go upstairs and pray that you won’t hear little footsteps coming your way) our oldest said, “Mama, I wish that you could just leave.”
I think that she meant for an hour or two, but a few days might do everyone good.
August, august, why do you torment me so? Here is the answer, or at least part of it: I love routine. Like preschool on Monday, Wednesday and Fridays. Saturday afternoon dance lessons. Thursday morning Bible study. 7 a.m. wake-up and 8 p.m. lights out. Weekdays and weekends. Routine. Love it. Especially if that routine includes regular times when I am by myself, so that I can actually hear my thoughts (or even just think some).
In June, the unscheduled summer seemed like a grand adventure. And it has been. But it’s not June anymore.
Now it’s August, and I’m ready for life to settle down a bit, and to fall into some categories and time slots.
(Just remind me that I wrote this when I’m complaining in October.)