I’m going to be a spoil sport here. A debbie downer. A whiner. A glass is gone, let alone half empty kind of girl. Mock me if you want. But don’t come crying to me when you’re having a break down right around Fourth of July, OK?

Summer isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. In fact, it is looming large, threatening to arrive any day now and it’s shaking its sweaty fists in my face and its breath smells like barbecue. I already feel nostalgic for September.

I can hear you booing. You think I care?

Last Wednesday, it was a beautiful day here in Brooklyn–sunny and unexpectedly warm. Drunk from Vitamin D, I went directly to the park after school with both of my boys–on a whim. Let’s just say, I really wouldn’t advise just “hopping over to the park after school” without a back up plan and some extra muscle on hand. Forewarned is forearmed. Consider this my shot across your bow.

After months and months spent indoors, your wardrobe is not ready for its closeup. Sure, shed your parka–but to what end? Maybe you’ll be a bit more comfortable in the temperature sense, but you certainly won’t feel at ease once you realize you are wearing dirty pants, mismatched socks, beat up clogs and a sweaty turtleneck.

Congratulations! Now that you’re strutting your sorry self around in public, you’re going to have to count on running into people you know. And, because you look like total crap (apologies), you better have something interesting to say to compensate for what you lack in aesthetic appeal. I beg of you–prepare yourself! What do you plan on saying to your neighbor after you blurt out (with spit coming out the side of your mouth) “OHMYGAWD…It’s such a BEAUTIFUL DAY?”

You have spent the winter negotiating with terrorists, making concessions that no person with any shred of dignity or sense of justice should ever have to make. But you did it for a temporary peace in that ninth hour of indoor play on that third day of snow. Your children own your ass now and they know it. And thanks to the warmer temperatures, the rest of the world will know it, too. Onlookers will see you being marched to the ice cream truck by your three-year old. They will tsk-tsk under their breath as you fork over $3.50 for an ice pop that you could buy at the grocery store for 50 cents. And finally, they’ll arch their eyebrows as they watch the cataclysmic aftershocks of the sugar rush that ensues 15 minutes later.

But you know what–who cares what people think?? It’s a BEAUTIFUL GODDAMN DAY and the only thing that matters is that you and your kids are enjoying it. BUT. But. But. You skipped Playground Spring Training. You have lost all muscle memory of what it feels like to hurl yourself through the air, grabbing the ankle of your toddler who is about to catapult himself over the side of a rail up in the playground sky while you hold your other child on your hip. You are not nearly flexible enough to pull one child off of a stranger’s child as they duke it out for the pole position on the curly slide. You do these things, because you must. But you will need pain medication and a cocktail when you get home.

So, cheers to Spring, Summer’s welcome mat. But let us meditate on Summer’s sobering, looming threats before we celebrate. Sunburn, sweat, ice cream tantrums, heat waves, park bathrooms, stroller fits, playground pandemonium, parenting on display and fashion unzipped. In the words of Michael Conrad on HIll Street Blues: “Let’s be careful out there.”
** with apologies to Yo La Tengo