I love my kid and everything but on the last day of school, I needed to pen a quick open letter to Baby Jesus to help get us through the summer.
Dear Baby Jesus,
As you know, today was the last day of school. That’s right; for twelve weeks our kids are with us 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Aside from a few little camps, summer dance and yes, of course, vacation bible school, there’s all ours again. So today, I come to you in prayer.
Please give me strength for the next twelve weeks.
Help me to decree that bed time will be at 9:15 p.m. so that my child can get the rest she needs and so that I don’t end up packing my shit and running away.
Please help me to make my child complete pages out of her math workbook every day and continue to spend thirty minutes a day reading to improve her fluency. I know lying is a sin so I’ll just go ahead and admit that we haven’t done shit since Spring Break but I’ve had really good intentions. We’ll perform penance with our 30 minutes a day of reading every day during the break, I promise.
Please help to create that chore list that I have grand intentions of designing. You know, the duties that she’s going to complete every day before she goes outside to play so that she not only cleans up her damn messes but also gains valuable skills that she’ll need in adulthood like “don’t start no (mess), won’t be no (mess).” Please help me to make her do each and every chore for longer than just two days and not criticize the obvious half-ass work that an eight-year-old is capable of.
Baby Jesus, please ensure that my kid won’t eat us out of house and home since she’s home with no schedule or set meal time and insists on just snacking all day. Please don’t let her suggest she just eat “a bunch of Rice Krispies Treats” again for lunch instead of a meal. Please keep the Ice Cream Man from playing his siren song down our street, for we have a freezer full of sugar free popsicles.
Please help her to remain intact this summer. A broken wrist, a broken elbow, a sprained ankle, a dog bite and a big scratch on her face are plenty for us, thanks. Sure, you say, I’ve already met my deductible, but … please, hear my prayer anyway.
Help me to not scream until my voice is hoarse each day, even when I find my kid on the fucking roof. No, Baby Jesus, I’m not kidding. Give me strength to not curse before 10 a.m., for one should at least make it to brunch before they lose their shit.
Give my kid the wisdom to not ask me to take her to the pool or have someone spend the night every single day. And give her the wherewithal not to utter the phrase “I’m bored,” for her own safety.
And lastly, help me to not tell my husband to go fuck himself while throwing a dish at his head when he walks through the door at 6:30 p.m. and has the audacity to ask what I even did all day.