The Summer Commandments

So school is officially done, and since the doors of academia have closed I have:
-Taken the kids to the beach by myself, which was equal parts fun and exhausting and climaxed with my changing a massive, I-ate-too-much-watermelon diarrhea diaper on the beach where Little Man and I both wound up covered in equal parts sand and shit, causing our hasty exit to the showers and home.
-Taken all three kids on the train into the city with H to see Toy Story 3*. This proved to me I, in no uncertain terms, can not take the kids in alone using this form of transportation, as the transfer at Seacaucus involves innumerable sets of stairs and I would be crippled by carrying LM alone, never mind the umbrella stroller and massive bag of diapers, wipes, water bottle, Bandaids and snacks required when schlepping three children through a metropolis.
-Hosted the first of the girls' two ridiculously expensive birthday parties at the bouncy castle playland. No, I could not convince them to have a joint party (not that it would have sat well with me and my birthday philosophy anyway). I narrowly survived and had to use all of my willpower to not clock the kids who were asking, "Where's my goody bag?" and I get to do it all again in two days. I also get enjoy the next six weeks with no takeout or pedicures to offset the cost. Awesome.

It is only the first day of summer and we're already moving at lightning speed. While I enjoy all of these activities (despite all my bitching), I know I can't keep this up and groceries, laundry, H's unreasonable desire to eat cooked food for dinner, as well as my own desire to write, demand that I pump the brakes and set a reasonable pace for the next twelve weeks. I also don't want to wind up like I was at the end of last summer - borderline psychotic, puffy and perpetually slightly hungover from nightly wine consumption, with a house that looked like a tornado had gone through it for three months, feeling like a poorly paid cruise director. I also want to prevent myself, this summer, from waking up each day, already mid-panic attack, trying to figure out the answer to "What are we doing today Mom?"

To do all of this I have made some rules that I would like to share with you all. Let's call them:

Mean Mommy's Summer Commandments

1st Commandment: Mommy is not responsible for all of your shit.
This commandment is as broad and far-reaching as "Thou shalt not covet". In real life translation, it means I will not be picking up the majority of the toys left on the family room floor when the children have decided to transfer their wilding to the back yard. I will also not be making beds or putting laundry in hampers or dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And to this end, I ran a "How to Load the Dishwasher" seminar this afternoon.

I am also not responsible for packing and unpacking beach bags, other than for offspring who are vertically challenged and can not reach the beach towels (read:Little Man). I bought each of the girls their own bags and they have to pack and unpack them each day. I take care of the sunscreen, but if they want a dry towel, a book to read by the pool, sunglasses, or swim goggles, they'd better pack them. I am also not responsible if your favorite bathing suit is left wet on the floor to grow mold.

This includes you, H.

2nd commandment: Meal and snack times are 8:30am, 10:30am, 12:30pm, 3:30pm and 6:00pm. At all other times the kitchen will be closed.

As I haves stated before, I have Hobbits for children who treat my kitchen like a Greek diner, open at all hours, serving anachronistic foods, "Can I have pizza for breakfast?" or "How about waffles for snack?". This summer, rather than rename myself Athena, I am forcing all the offspring to eat at the same time, and if they're not hungry then, they have to wait for the next seating. There are, however, free refills on coffee.

3rd commandment: September through June your job is school, now it's to help me.

This means the girls are becoming well-versed in the use of a Swiffer duster and just how much furniture polish to spray on the dining room table. Little Man quite enjoys the Swiffer wet mop.

4th commandment: 12:00 to 1:00 is Mommy's lunch hour
Find something to do that does not involve me or setting yourself on fire for one hour.

5th commandment: Wednesdays are field trip days.
We will have one major outing a week, such as The Bronx Zoo, Central Park, the Crayola Factory. I even checked New York and New Jersey guidebooks out of the library and we all sat down to plan these trips together for Christ's sake (I'm not sure hauling LM's fat ass up the stairs of the Statue of Liberty is going to happen, so advance apologies to #2). The rest of the week don't you dare complain that we're going to the pool, the park or the library AGAIN.

6th commandment: Get yourself ready in a timely fashion or pay up.
As stated by H, the repeated requests when trying to get the progeny out the door can drive one to madness. So in an effort to curb the pre-outing rage-fests, I have bought an egg timer. The girls have tweny minutes to make their beds, get dressed (putting their pj's in the hamper), brush their teeth and get their shoes on, or fork over a quarter. Since that is one eighth of their allowance, it seemed like a motivating consequence. Today was our inaugural use of the timer. #1 thought it was a cool game, #2 started panic-crying and Little Man kept stealing the timer. Granted, there are kinks to be worked out, but I'll be damned if they weren't all ready to go to the library after ten minutes.

I'm sure there are things I will add to the list, some aimed at me, such as "Thou shalt not act like every night is Saturday night and drink three glasses of wine since you don't have to get out of the house by 8:15" , but for now I think it's a pretty good start.

Let's just hope by July 4th I don't have to add "Thou shalt not kill."

*Which made me cry until I was nearly blind with a headache. It was so bad, my sensitive #1 said flatly to me upon leaving the theater, hiding her bloodshot eyes, "I don't want to talk about it," and we still haven't. Also, 18 year-old Andy looked so much like 18 year-old H, I was feeling more than a little disturbed at my desire to make out with a cartoon.