I hear the flip flops of Summer slapping the pavement behind me and I am shocked that we are in June. June?! Wasn’t my birthday 2 days ago? I wore jackets and long-sleeved shirts (this accounts for winter-wear is Southern Cal) a mere yesterday. And now the pavement is hot and people sport pedicures (my toes are so not ready for their summer debut) and tank tops and beach tans. The children are about to be released on summer parole and me with a mere handful of activities to keep them busy for the 90 days that I am activities director. In two and a half weeks they are home full time.
Sixteen days.
I must accomplish a great deal of work before the girls are home, as once they are here, well the rhythm of the house changes, not in a bad way, but in a summertime way. The rules grow lax. Bed times become a distant memory as the sun stays up well past 8 pm. More ice cream. More beach time. More pool time. More friends and more travel. And somehow with the demise of the children’s schedule, my writing schedule feels negotiable instead of concrete. As much as I rail against structure, I thrive with it. The metronomic beat of; they get up, they go to school, I write, fades… A distant beat as life, summertime life, eats into my writing life.
I must fight harder for all the writing hours I need (as this is my job, I just happen to do it from home) when the children are about. And it’s not just them. Oh no, it’s me too. What a delicious procrastination tool. I can think of nothing better than putting off a tough scene by eating ice cream with the girlies or swimming in the pool, or visiting family. No. It isn’t the girls. It’s me too. But the writer in me needs the time to put down words.
So Summer, we can hang and all, but I still need to get my work finished.
