Idyllic Summer Day

You know those blogs...where the kids all cooperate when the mama suggests a picnic. Where the mom never seems to lose her cool. Where the screen door never slams into the already-screaming child's forehead. There always seems to be a knitting project on the go in these magical mothers' homes, not to mention time to whip up some wholesome, made-from-scratch jam/bread/cake/muffin/souffle from locally grown ingredients.

I had my fun with trying to be that blogger. See last summer's posts, where every day appeared to be a carnival of bread baking, raspberry picking, and beach fun.

Another year of mothering and blogging has granted me new wisdom.

Yesterday was the first official day of summer. My kids trickled out the door as they are wont to do, without shoes, sunscreen, and hats, and missing various articles of clothing. I decided it would be fun to go on a little adventure.

I went back into the house to collect sunscreen, juice, snacks, shoes, hats, clothing, and a blanket. That only took me about 10 minutes. By that time, Violet and Margot had come back into the house, because where I go, they go. Violet then had a tantrum because she didn't like the dress I grabbed out of the laundry basket. She fought and struggled, I persisted (because I was too lazy to run upstairs to find something she liked) until she tried to run out the door. When I caught her arm, the screen door sprang shut. On her forehead (cue shrill cries of indignation).

The mama is still smiling at this point. Even though Violet then had a fit about the fact that I'd grabbed HER sleeping bag as a picnic blanket. I cajoled, a la Maria Von Trapp, about what fun it would be to enjoy our snack in the great outdoors.

My plan to walk up the road to the field of horses dwindled to a tromp through the grass into one of our small pastures. I tramped down long grass, spread the blanket out, and laid out our snacks, all the while listening to you-know-who shrieking about the burrs and the picky grass and the hot sun that were all conspiring to ruin her life. "This is fun!", I chirped, trying my darndest to convince her.

Then ensued the picnic.

Applesauce plopped off spoons onto dresses. Juice spilled all over the sleeping bag. Jude closed his eyes in resignation. I closed mine in an attempt to go to my happy place. It didn't work.

So, we gathered it all up and headed back up to the civilized, mown grass of the lawn. Margot wasn't wearing a diaper, and started behaving as if she wanted to pee. She squatted, and strained...but, nothing.

So, being a country dweller, I hiked up my skirt, widened my stance, and said, "Look! Pssss! See mommy! I'm peeing in the grass!" I failed to mention to her that I also peed on my skirt. And my shoes.

We ate strawberries and read stories, and hopped in and out of the wading pool. That is the story the pictures tell. But don't fool yourself.

I'm not one of those mothers. This was not one of those picnics.

And this, apparently, is not one of those blogs.