The public schools are still in session, for just a few more sweltering days, and then summer vacation is upon us. Like most of the families we know, we’ve sort of mapped out the summer: in July there is Oasis Central Park Day Camp, for Caleb; and Liam has a spot in the National Dance Institute summer program. (Getting him to agree to this program required one week of pricey soccer camp beforehand, but we're pretty sure he's going to love it. And if he doesn't? It's only a month!)
August is Camp Grandma and horning in on the summer rentals of various friends (we’re great guests: we bring liquor and food, clean up after ourselves, and never stay too long: we’re now accepting invitations through the end of August, so feel free to invite us to your house!) Then there’s more soccer at the end of August while Mommy tries to get ready for her new job, which starts just after Labor Day, and that’s that.
It’s not perhaps the most exciting summer plan we’ve ever had, but it’s been a long year and there are Big Changes brewing on the horizon for next year, so for this summer, we’re staying local. I’m one of those people who doesn’t do “spontaneous” very well and I like having all my ducks in a row (or rather, out of the house for most of the day, all week), plus we needed to buy tickets to Camp Grandma out there in flyover country.
But then the New York Magazine “Summer” issue arrived and it hit me: Our summer plans are the Most. Boring. Ever.
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