Helicopter

The last few weeks of summer seem like cruel and unusual punishment. The libraries in my city have gone on furlough. The lifeguards have gone back to college. When I search the internet for "things to do with kids," I get back the answer, "A whole lotta nothing."

Speaking of the library, I have this tendency to request things and then forget about them. Suddenly, a stack of 15 books comes in, and I have no idea why I wanted these particular ones. Last week, as I was gathering my books in anticipation of the aforementioned furlough, I noticed this one:


The premise of this book seems to be that the downfall of our society rests on the fact that we are hyper-scheduling children. The author suggests that I SHOULDN'T be trolling the internet for activities at all. Instead, I should kick back with a cocktail while the kids run wild with their imaginations. Furthermore, we should be banishing all electronics and plastics and let children devise their own playthings out of trash and earthen matter.

Great idea! I especially like the part about the cocktail. But my annoyance with this author began on page one, when he said, "Ambitious mothers force hours of homework on bewildered ten-year-olds, hanging the abstract fear of 'future employers' over their heads."

OK. I start to get irritated when the BAD MOTHER gets brought up so early in a text. And I snickered at the thought that it was ME and not the SYSTEM that was making my darlings do their math homework every evening. Of course, if I'm honest I have to admit to feeling a bit twitchy about the fact that YOU are having your kid practice those division facts over the summer. And I am feeling twitchy that my kid knows that 8 times 6 is 48, but when I ask him what 48 divided by 8 is, he looks at me like I'm speaking a different language. Is your kid going to be better prepared for third grade? Will your kid go to a better college? Will your kid win the Pulitzer Prize, while mine lives in my basement and plays video games all day? Crap.

One day last week, we started our day with this conversation:



The abrupt ending of this video clip was followed by me losing my mind. My tirade sounded something like this: "You are young, healthy boys! I just read a book that said that I am not supposed to be planning your summer. You are in charge of yourselves. Go run around! Go hunt something! Go build a structure out of sticks and trash! Go! Go! Go!"

Green sized me up and said, "Can we play the Wii instead?"

Seconds later, the grumpy bunch of us were piled in the car to go partake in the great outdoors. The boys were sullen and vocal about it. Imagine the whining. Close your eyes and visualize Green treating me to a speech about INJUSTICE. Imagine this speech lasting the entire 45 minute drive through traffic as we searched for some nature.

We ended up at the Arboretum. When we got out of the car, Green said, "What are we going to do here?" I sighed heavily. "Green," I responded. "Look at this wild-ness. There are adventures to be had! Be free!"

Green slumped his shoulders and said, "All I see are trees."

As it turns out, trees can be pretty fun. They are fun as long as you have the best seat in the biggest tree. If, however, your seat is inadequate or your tree is petite, you might start to whine a bit. You might call your mother over and say, "It's not fair that his tree is better than my tree." And if your mother is anything like I am, she might say something like, "I am not in charge of the trees." And you might respond, "HE ALWAYS GETS WHAT HE WANTS AND I NEVER GET ANYTHING MY LIFE IS TERRIBLE." And, if your mother is anything like I am, she will suddenly realize that she left the cocktail ingredients at home.

At one point, we found a tree that suited everyone. It was one of those huge, droopy trees with an underworld all its own. It had multiple good seats. It could be *gasp* shared! Blue and Green climbed up on a branch and started scootching down the length of it. And I started to worry, just a little bit. Very quietly, I wondered, "What if they get splinters in their butts?"


Now, if I looked up "butt splinters" in the index of that book, it would point me to a section called, "Butt Splinters Are Part of Adventure!" Or maybe it would point me to a section called, "Mothers Who Worry About Butt Splinters Are Raising Uncreative, Dependent Monsters!" But the truth is that this author probably never had to extract splinters from the butts of his screaming children. I'm pretty sure he left that task to his wife.

So I hovered a bit under that tree. Hover, hover, hover. Their hair was ruffling from the rotors of my metaphorical helicopter. I tried to distract them from my closeness with some chit-chat. "Boys," I said, "I think it looks like a castle under here. What do you think it looks like?"

Green looked up and around. "I think it looks like a boiler room," he said.

I exclaimed with delight! A boiler room! Now, THAT was creative. "Green," I asked, "when have you ever seen a boiler room?"

"I saw it on Club Penguin," he answered.

Dammit. Club Penguin is a video game! The book is right! Technology has seized my kids' imaginations, and now they're ruined.

We began to walk back to the car in defeat. Back to the Wii and the computer and playing "I Gotta Feeling" over and over and over again on the Ipod. As we walked, we noticed that all of the trees in the Arboretum were labeled with both their regular names and their species names. We passed a pine tree with this sign underneath that said, "Pine Tree: Pinus"

Say that out loud to yourself once. Pinus.

Pretend that you are an 8 year old boy, and say it three times quickly. Pinus, pinus, pinus.

Tears started running from my kids' eyes as they hooted, "PINUS!" at the top of their lungs. "PINUS!"

They ran and screeched. Whooped and jumped. Played.

And isn't that what summer is all about? Wide-open spaces, sunshine, and a dirty word?