I am pretty sure I have completely finished talking about my kids at camp.
After all of my all-caps tweets about my kids being home and the dynamics of our household completely changing and posts about the 14 loads of laundry I did over the weekend, and questioning why my son came home with socks belonging to at least 11 boys who are not Josh Martell and why his two neatly-folded sets of bed sheets came home completely still neatly folded (WHAT? Everyone just slept in their sleeping bags, Mom.)(HURL), and how they managed to bring home the entire Wisconsin beach in every crevice of their belongings, and how boondoggle and lanyard are the same thing and whatever you want to call it, those stitches come back to you like riding a bike, and how my son now eats quesadillas (which he pronounces kay-se-dillas in a funny/not funny kind of way) and my kids have inside jokes that are hilarious to exactly only them…
*I* am disgusted with *myself* for talking about it so incessantly, so I can’t even imagine how much eye rolling and page Xing you guys have been doing for the last few days.
But I think I have been hanging on to talking about the kids at camp because if I don’t, then I have to admit to myself that it’s August freakin’ 12th already and summer is basically over—truthfully, though, if the weather in Toronto has been any indication, summer has truly been over for weeks already—and I will have to focus my energy on the fact that the green leaves on the trees in my backyard have started turning different shades of autumn and I have to go school supply shopping (EEP!) and think about dark mornings and evenings and tights and boots and jackets and toques and how I’m going to have to start doing photoshoots inside and the upcoming Jewish holidays and pumpkin-spiced everything and how I will no longer be able to drink my coffees Nancy Botwin-style.
(Would you rather I go back to talking about summer camp—the laundry is done now at least.)
(I thought so.)