It's summer, time to get out the boxing gloves...

I am trying to take my own advice from posts-past and take a few minutes to write while Little Man is asleep and the girls are at the pool with my magnificent mother in-law, instead of continuing to orbit around the house, manically throwing things in boxes and wondering how the hell we're going to get all this packing done in the next thirteen days, all the while tripping over piles of unfolded laundry, train tracks and Groovy Girls.

So summer is upon me, and while I mentioned (just a few times) how I am having my ass kicked three ways 'til Sunday, I have actually managed to settle into a groove with the kids and have begun to enjoying all this time with them while they still want to spend it with me, rather than have me drop them three blocks from the town pool. A major part of finding balance this summer is getting into a schedule of outings to keep everyone busy and from unpacking every box I have worked so hard to fill. So if we are spending so much time out and about with other children of varying ages and other parents of varying intelligences, you know what that means. Time for my annual Fight at the Park.

As you will recall from last summer, I am not one to avoid disciplining someone else's kid when the safety of my own is at risk, since I firmly believe we need to harken back to the olden days and participate in communal parenting when sharing the same sandbox. You will also remember, on occasion, I Bronx out when doing so. So I'm not sure if it's something to do with this particular park that I don't frequent that often, but it seems every time I have an unpleasant interaction with some adolescent ape, stumbling about in his testosterone fog, with a sense of entitlement in proportion to the length of his hair (I still do not understand this phenomenon). Again, see last summer's post.

So why was I surprised at yesterday's occurrences? I showed up at the park with all three kids so slathered in sunscreen they looked like understudies for Powder and I immediately knew we were in trouble as I saw dozens of teenagers wearing neon green t-shirts with "STAFF" emblazoned on the back. Ugh. The town "day camp", otherwise known as the cheapest way to not spend time with your kids during the summer while entrusting them to the care of inattentive dimwits. I know much about this having attended one myself (because my parents worked) and because H was a counselor/future Gitmo warden at the one in his town where he spent his summer playing Get Under It with his third grade group*. Today there were dozens of children were wilding around the playground while their counselors sat, in the shade, oblivious, texting. Oh, boy. The hairs were already standing up on the back of my neck.

Our trouble began over by the sandbox, where LM set up shop, and coincidentally, there is a gate down to the baseball field of last summer's fame. Now while I am an attentive mother on most days, when I am out with all three kids in public and therefore, outnumbered, I rely on conveniences like wooden barriers to ensure one of them doesn't wander into traffic while I rescue someone from the top of the jungle gym. So when groups of kids and their wardens started coming and going from the playground and field, would it really have been to much to ask of the hormone bag bringing up the rear to shut the gate behind him? Apparently so. And apparently, once again, it was my job to educate someone. After speaking nicely to a large group of pimple faced child-wranglers who, to be fair, did listen and were closing the gate, I realized there were so many groups coming and going there was no way I could inform them all of proper playground etiquette (and why the town did not, I have no idea), and I sure as hell was not getting up every thirty-five seconds to close the gate, so I just began shouting as groups entered and left, "CLOSE THE GATE!". I thought, as usual, I was making myself into the park pariah, and embarrassing my mom friends who had met up with me (although they should be used to my behavior by now), but after my fifth shouted directive I heard a cry of, "You're awesome!", from a gaggle of mom's by the swings. Go, me.

Then, Little Man grew tired of the sandbox and we moved on to the toddler jungle gym. For those of you unfamiliar with playground equipment, they make specific types of monkey bars for wee ones complete with lower slides and shallower steps. So why, pray tell, was there a gaggle of ten year old boys repeatedly bumping into and almost knocking over my two year old on Lilliputian equipment? Because their asshole counselors were down on the playground below sitting in the fucking shade, that's why!!!! Can you see where this is going? Can you?

After trying ro manage the erratic movements of eight grade school idiots to prevent my child from being trampled to death to no avail, I had had enough. I marched over to the fence and shouted down to the miscreants lounging in the shade, "EXCUSE ME! DO YOU THINK YOU COULD COME UP HERE AND STOP YOUR CAMPERS FROM ACTING LIKE IDIOTS???" Most of them just looked up at me with dazed expression, but the one in the center of this circle jerk actually mastered his powers of speech to say, "What do you want me to do? It's a playground." I swear to God, dear readers, my head almost exploded and it was all I could do to stop myself from grabbing him by his pooka shell necklace and cramming his iPhone down his throat. My response, instead was, "This equipment is for children under six. Are your campers under six?" He answers, "No, but, God, they're just playing." Don't worry, dear readers, I am not writing this post from jail, so I obviously managed to contain my rage long enough to ask him, "Are you seriously arguing with me?", march off and find the director. I took much pleasure at watching him stammer out his explanation while his boss basically told him to shut the hell up and start doing his damn job.

Again, I beg the question, when did the idiots start running the asylum? I will try, once again, to send out a call of action to take back control. I not only highly recommend you take matters into your own hands at the local parks when you see unchecked and child-endangering idiocy, but to think about how we, the parents of the next generation, are raising the camp counselors of the future. We need to instill a sense of humility and respect in our children when faced with legitimate criticism. And I have come up with the perfect catch phrase to help us take our children down a notch when they get their sassy britches on. I'm considering getting t-shirts printed with this phrase to remind us to educate our children, no matter how smart they themselves think they are at fifteen, how little anyone else cares about their opinion. Perhaps you might have heard it before?

JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Let it be our battle cry.

*Get Under It consisted of H and his fellow counselors throwing a 24 inch diameter kickball high into the air and screaming at their campers to "Get under it!" so as to watch their little sixty pound bodies be knocked down like bowling pins as the ball came screaming back down to earth.