Start the Summer of Love

Today is the kickoff of my summer guest post series, Summer of Love 2011.

I realize some of you people in the northerliest parts of our fine nation are still freezing your asses off. Don’t be a hater because it’s 90 degrees in the ATX. Take your mind off the nasty weather by reading some great writers here every Wednesday.

When I got the idea for Summer of Love, I knew exactly who I wanted to be the inaugural guest. She is equal parts wickedly funny and uber-poignant. I am certain that if we lived within 100 miles of each other, we’d be good friends. So please welcome the supertalented Julie C. Gardner of By Any Other Name.

Summer: Noun. From the Old English Somer meaning “Hottest season of the year.” Takes its origin from the Latin Somatoviticus which, loosely translated, suggests “School’s out. Get a job.”

At least that was our family’s etymology.

Yes, at the tender age of fifteen (Hooray, work permits!) I was hired to be a receptionist at a men’s hair salon. I spent my days answering the phones, booking appointments, greeting clients, serving them wine.

Wait, what?

You read that right. The salon sported a stocked refrigerator and as I welcomed each patron, I also asked if he preferred Chablis, Rosé or Burgundy.  It was oh so friendly. And oh so illegal. Have you seen Norman Rockwell’s cover of the 50-year-old man (in need of a trim) accepting a plastic cup of Gallo from a ponytailed sophomore in white Reeboks? Yeah. I hadn’t either.  So the following summer I found more gainful employment…

…at a bakery called La Petite Boulangerie; a haven where apron-clad girls served all manner of simple carbohydrates to sweet-toothed customers. And ourselves. We donned jaunty red berets to peddle our wares; but mon dieu! If a chocolate croissant accidentally touched our bare hands? We had to dispose of it. Orally. Yes, La Petite Boulangerie was Heaven with a catch: I gained fifteen pounds in eight weeks. And then I quit. Or I was fired for eating the profits. Either way, I sought leaner options for ensuing bathing suit seasons…

…at The Guild, a local drug store (but Fancy!). We sold aspirin alongside $40.00 cologne (Quorum!). We priced stool softeners and dusted displays of cloisonné earrings. I sold lipsticks and tampons and Bayer (oh my!). Sure, I faced the occasional shoplifter hiding $200.00 worth of Dexatrim under a jumbo package of Quilted Northern (she probably worked at La Petit Boulangerie). Still, Shop Girl was the perfect job for me.

Until college, that is. Because in college? Summer employment meant internships. Networking. Maturing. Getting serious about the future.

So naturally, I spent six summers working at day camps (Huzzah!). I got paid to sing songs and play games. We didn’t walk between activities; we scampered, skipped, sashayed. We rode horses and swam; we finger- painted and studied nature. I made less than a dollar an hour to eat brown-bagged lunches while surrounded by bees and scraped knees.

But oh, what a job. What friendships and memories. The most joyous employment I could imagine. Before I acquired my current position…

…as Mom.

My last, best career.

It seems impossible that I’m now staring down my fifteenth summer of motherhood.

The seasons slipped through my fingers like sand; my babies traded bright plastic pails and shovels for skim boards and cell phones. If I blink twice, they’ll be holding their own work permits and citing the laws of Somatoviticus.

I’ve spent so many summers employed by these children. Warm, breezy days filled with stories and smiles; long, sticky weeks during which I climbed the walls instead of trees. Still, I was prepared for the workload of parenting. I’d been trained to handle baked goods, Band-Aids and bees; the occasional glass of Burgundy.

And yet. I am woefully unprepared to walk away from this job as I’ve done so many summers in the past. I’m not ready to look for a replacement career; to freshen up my resume; to embrace new professional responsibilities.

I’ll admit my jaw tightens when I realize my kids will once again be home all day with me. For months. I know my writing will barely fit in the backseat beside Jack and Karly and their skim boards.

But I will take a deep breath and make room. Because our summertime is finite and my days of driving them are numbered. Soon, my babies will seek their freedom. Drive their own lives. Create their own children. The laughter and tears, the pain and love? Will be of their own making.

While I applaud from the sidelines.

This summer, my words can wait. I will sneak them in the cracks for as long as I am needed in this job. And then?

Perhaps they’ll still be hiring at La Petit Boulangerie.

Because nothing says Midlife Crisis like a jaunty red beret.

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