Counting Down the Days

 That buzzing you hear in the air around you is the collective tension of parents everywhere. Only eleven days left in Small Child's summer vacation, and I'm counting every one. It might not be so bad if we weren't in the August misery.

August misery, you ask?

Day after day of 100+ heat. Every afternoon the sky (east or west, depending on the whims of the universe) looms with the promise of relief, and every night I close my eyes to ominous silence instead of thunder and rain.

It makes me so crazy that, tomorrow, I'm going to "light the oven" (as my late Aunt Belle used to say) and bake a peach cobbler.

Even crazier? The Man will grill the seven pounds of carne asada I just put in to marinate. 

Yes, friends, it's a certifiable "These People Are Crazy Summer Cookout."

Small Child's best friend and her extended family are here to visit her grandparents. The moms have been trading children back and forth and it's my turn to feed the crew.  So, I thought, why not be as miserable as possible?  That's what the heat does to you.

But there's the requisite bucket of pre-made margaritas congealing in the freezer (high fructose corn syrup be damned just this once) and three bottles of sparkling wine chilling so the grownups shouldn't notice the heat or mosquitoes too much. The Gang of Five (as I refer to the children) will be in and out, inspiring the classic Southern anthem, "Close the Door! You're Letting the Air Conditioning Out!" 

And about 11:30, when the kids are collapsed on a big bed somewhere in the house and the adults are sitting out on the patio, having accustomed ourselves to the humidity after all, I'll look around at these faces I've known for so many years and think, "You know, it's not that bad around here in the summer after all."