Summer school and soccer

So all I know is I am getting up way too early for summer.

Apollo has summer school this year and his bus comes at 7:15. Which means I set the alarm for 6:30 so I can haul my butt out of bed by 6:45 so I can slowly wake Apollo (rubbing his arms, stretching his legs) so I can dress him while he pretends to be asleep by 7 so he can eat the cereal I've poured for him by 7:12.

I always feel a little bad when I put him on the bus and wave good-bye. He only goes for half a day, but c'mon--summer is for swimming, sleeping in late, watching re-runs of shows your parents used to watch in the middle of the afternoon, peanut butter jars on the counter all day--not SCHOOL! I've tried to be upbeat about it--Lucky you! You get to play with your friends all day! And I hear today is Pizza day!--but of course, Apollo knows this isn't Normal Summer Behavior. When he gets home he plays with an intensity only a kid who is trying to make up for lost time plays with.

And then it kills me when I have to call him in from jumping on the neighbors tramp for homework. Or call him in to go to bed in the darkening twilight just as the neighbors are starting to play Bloody Wolf (which is really flashlight tag, but they call Bloody Wolf for reasons that are beyond me--I blame Stephanie Myer). On good days I say to myself, "Someday he'll thank me for getting him caught up in school." On bad days I say to myself, " Someday he'll hate me for taking away his summer." I suppose only time will tell.

So then after Apollo is off, I have time for breakfast and then wake up Paris for soccer camp. We are a soccer family and Paris is the king. Not only does he play like a little tornado but somehow wins the World Cup family pool every time.

The neighbor kid who is a freshman this year went to the same camp this year and so we carpooled. The first day I took them, the neighbor kid went on in the bravado of youth about trying out for high school teams, and how much better high school will be than middle school, etc. Paris, quiet for once, took it all in, and I'm sure was daydreaming about trying out for high school teams, too. When I dropped them off, I asked Paris if he wanted me to walk him up to the field. "No, I'm good," he said as he scrambled out of the car, hauling out his huge soccer bag, trying to keep up with the neighbor kid who ran up to his high school friends. So Paris was left to walk up to the field by himself, his bag heavy with water and Gatorade bouncing on his hip, looking tiny and lonely. (Of course, he was probably fine. I was feeling tiny and lonely watching my kids become themselves, walking away from me.)

The next morning I was smarter. I asked Paris if he wanted me to walk up with him before we picked up the neighbor kid. "Sure, if you want," he shrugged. And I smiled to myself.

And it's a good thing I did walk up with him. Because when we reached the field, he turned to me, and said timidly, "I forgot my ball." He said this timidly because my normal reaction is to sigh an exasperated sigh and start in with the This Is Why I Ask You To Get Ready the Night Before speech and end with If You Would Put Your Things Away Where They Belong You Would Have Them When You Need Them speech. But this time I surprised him with a Where Do You Think It Is? sincerely asked question and raced off to find it. Because after all, that's what summers are for, right, making sure your kids have a good time.

When I came back 15 min. later he ran up to meet me. "Thanks, Mom," and he cocked his head back like he was going to give me a kiss before he realized where he was and instead ducked his head while I rifled his hair before he ran off to play.