As freeing as summer can seem while you’re anxiously anticipating its arrival, once into its unstructured midst, a parent can grow weary. The seemingly endless days, followed by the typical sleep-deprived nights, even if interrupted by a smattering of day camp or summer school, can make three months feel like three years. Please don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying we should all long for the stressful start of the school year; I’m merely granting permission to acknowledge the battle fatigue of the summer. So to all those parents who feel a little “fatigued,” I offer the following validation:
You refer to having X-rays of your child taken as “picture day.”
Your everyday dishes are Styrofoam.
Brushing someone else’s teeth doesn’t seem the least bit unusual.
You organize your silverware drawer by those items that can and can’t crush pills.
You consider Tylenol a dietary supplement.
Out of habit, you ask to see the list of ingredients in your Frappaccino to make sure it’s gluten-free.
Getting your child ready for school looks like you’re a part of the NASCAR Pit Crew, but without the funny uniform.
You only go to the grocery store when you run out of applesauce and pudding.
You won’t wear white before or after Labor Day because it stains.
Your child needs new shoes, you leave him at home, and bring his AFOs instead.
Starbucks is a place “where everybody knows your name.”
You buy a purse based on whether or not there’s a pouch for the Diastat.
You act totally “out of control and stressed to the max” in public, just so kindly passersby don’t come up to you and recite the line about “G-d not giving you more than you can handle blah, blah, blah…”
You choose what Mexican restaurant you’ll go to by whether or not they have a Mariachi Band…but everybody does that.
Someone asks “when is your child’s birthday,” you automatically follow it up with a list of current medications and brief medical history.
You fill out a job application and include “pill-crushing” under job skills.
You consider your child’s sleep study, a night away.
You list Ronald McDonald House as a last known address.
You measure your parental worth by whether or not you remembered to give the afternoon dose of Baclofen.
You secretly fantasize about running down seniors who don’t really need your handicapped parking space.
You start thinking, maybe if President Bush had had services…