This is the first summer that we have not hired a summer babysitter or had one of us home most days of the week. So this is the summer of 10 zillion schedules. Summer gym. Police teen academy. Basketball camp. Boy Scout camp. Theatre practice. Probably Amateur Fireworks Camp -- I can't remember them all.
And I'm left trying to live vicariously through the bits and pieces that my kids tell me about their days.
"So Robbie, how was Boy Scout camp today?"
He's covered in dirt from head to toe, his hair is all jacked up and he smells like little boy, but all he can tell me about the past 8 hours is "good."
Then there's Charlie. He's more forthcoming.
"So how was police academy?"
"Torture. We marched everywhere and people were looking at us funny."
"But did you have fun?"
"Yeah. And they passed around meth, cocaine, crack and weed."
Boy, was he hungry after camp.
Getting information about the day from the teenager is a little trickier. It's an adventure in navigating through stories that must be really funny because she's laughing so hard I can't understand anything she's saying and deciphering grunts that provide the sound effects to the text conversations she's having with 27 of her closest friends at one time.
At least there is one other adult in the family who I can talk to.
"How was your day, Mike?"
"Hmmm? Oh, good. What's there to eat?"