Trillian is burned out from her summer reading list (she has to read 4 books), and her summer math workbook. She asked me how much I had to do when I was between 3rd and 4th grade.
I wasn’t about to tell her that we didn’t have to do such things back in the stone age. No way would I tell stories of lazy summer days, wading in the creek, playing baseball, building forts, and sweet sunsets interrupted only by my mother’s sweet voice floating on the warm summer breeze, calling me and my brother home for supper.
No, I told her I had to read 20 books and do a whole 8th grade math book. Uphill. Both ways.
Seriously, I don’t remember any of this when I was young. Part of me wants to rebel, like those hippie-wannabe parents who are going to send their kids to school in cutoffs and flip flops to protest SSA. But no, being the compliant corporate type, I’ll go along.
But I remember summer as a glorious time of having nothing in particular to do. I hate that I’m playing a part in stealing that from my kids. They’d better both end up in high-paying, satisfying careers.
They’ll need the money to pay for the therapists who will tell them it’s OK to hate me for taking their childhood summers.