Packing It All In

It seems to be a common pitfall of today’s parenting: over-thinking, over-planning, over-analyzing. At least, if I judge the parenting magazines by their covers – the ones that keep dropping into my mailbox and congratulating me on my pregnancy (I think they have me mixed up with someone else) – these are the primary concerns and mental gymnastics of parents, and I’d be happy to include myself as Exhibit A.

So what if my children haven’t had an official scheduled play-date in four weeks? It’s summer! Aren’t the children supposed to be outside catching butterflies and finding (or torturing) bugs? I’m an avid proponent of the organic outdoor play/mud-pie style of learning. Haven’t I made enough fairy baths with lavender oil bathwater for one summer? And surely the book reading, swimming lessons and trips to the beach and museums all count? But guilt prevails. Summer in the states is, no doubt about it, long. At least twelve weeks – quarter of the year in one flowing, unobstructed break. No wonder summer camp is such a right of passage over here. And so utterly absent in the UK where the summer holidays are half as long and the family vacation takes up fifty percent of it.

In our case, we managed to fit in a family holiday, some Adirondack camping, a little entertaining, a few houseguests, and at least half a dozen day trips. I saw the 4 year old through a series of swimming lessons, (right up until last week when she lasted only 15 minutes in the rain-chilled water before her lips turned blue and her tensed up body inhibited any sort of arm movement). We made ‘goop’, maxed out the paddling pool, worked on new bike skills, and painted ‘til the cows came home. To say that I have new respect for anyone working with toddlers and pre-schoolers is an understatement. I am exhausted.

There are less than two weeks to go before pre-school starts and the autumn class schedules have been released with the crack of gunshot at the races. Parents are falling over themselves, crashing the local library and YMCA vying for spots. I managed to get my four year old signed up for swimming, ballet, and soccer, and a special event for Winnie the Pooh’s 90th birthday party on September 8th. I was trying to decide whether there would room in the schedule for gymnastics or judo when I recovered my senses and realized if I kept this up I’d be nothing but a glorified cabbie by Thanksgiving. I have friends (ones I truly admire) whose every waking move is defined by the drop off and pick up schedule of their four sports-mad children heading to try outs, practices and games. I swore it wouldn’t be me but clearly it’s a slippery slope.

Meanwhile, my daughter’s pre-school came up with an ingenious plan. They sent home friendly, personalized notes, gently inviting our two year old to participate in a new pilot program for siblings of current students. They would join the Pre-K3 class for two half mornings a week, with only four spots available. Only four? I received the letter on Friday and was on the phone that night confirming our interest. Either admissions were light for the Pre-K3s this year or they’ve been mentally stamping ‘Future Student’ on the heads of all newborns at school drop off.

Nonetheless, the sudden imposition of structure on these endless summer weeks galvanized me into action. I’ve had a laundry list of “to dos” on hold for eons. That’s the thing about small children. Between all the swimming lessons, nature walks and craft projects, work is relegated to the farthest hours of the day, usually somewhere between 8pm and midnight when you’d rather be slouching on the sofa watching educational (or mind-numbing) TV. But there’s something about a milestone year – in my case, a full 365 days before the big 4-0, that has spurred me on. If over-planning is good enough for our children, it’s good enough for me.

I’ve managed to sign myself up for several rather active classes from Zumba to Tabata without really knowing what it will entail. I ran it by the four year old who reassured me it all sounds like a good plan. “After all, Mummy, it doesn’t really matter what you do as long as you have fun and get to play.” Applying the imparted wisdom of a four year old I did the only thing I could that felt right: pour a glass of wine and make dinner plans with friends.