I am in a funk, a melancholy, a fog of stone-cold dread. I really need someone to stroke my hair and whisper sweet comforts in my ear, but I can’t ask for commiseration, or even a cookie, for fear of sounding sanctimonious. You see, while pictures of moms jumping for joy and toasting the camera in celebration of the first day of school are flooding my Facebook and Instagram feeds; I just want to eat a pound of the snickerdoodles no one is offering me because I DREAD THE START OF SCHOOL.

There, I said it. And if you’re Team Jump for Joy, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I’m glad you’re happy! I would fart glitter over your joy if it wasn’t so environmentally unsound. I understand why parents are ready for their spawn to go back because we all need five. minutes. to. ourselves. for the love of all that is good and wholesome.

And the whining, oh my goodness, the whining. It’s too hot to shove them outside, and if you have to referee one more cage match over the iPad, you’re going to go Amish. Camps have almost bankrupted you and you can’t escape your kids’ grubby paws long enough to do a load of laundry, let alone lounge with a novel.

See? I get it. No pitchfork poking or torch wielding necessary. But I am in mourning over school starting, and I want to stop feeling like a freak about it. Here are my arguments for why my cheerless attitude does not earn me a “sancti” tacked onto my “mommy.” Hear me out.

1. I am getting a redo of my childhood. This can be true for anyone, but it’s especially bittersweet for me. When I was growing up, I split my time between hiding in my room from the bipolar tension that thrummed through my house, and melting outside in the Maryland humidity trying to tag along with a gang of neighborhood kids who definitely did not want me joining in their reindeer games. My kids may think the blueberry picking-hiking-gardening-swimming-canoeing-waterfall frolicking-sand castle building are all about them, but they’re a lot about me putting my past behind me.

2. When my kids where small I didn’t work outside the home. I didn’t have the constant tug and pull between work and childcare threatening to shred my sanity. I just had excuses to splash through water parks and craft masterpieces out of egg cartons. Now that I do work from home, my kids are teens and more than happy to sleep until noon to give me the writing time I need, which brings me to my next point . . .

3. My kids are teens and their school-time schedules are crushing. The homework, the projects, the games, the concerts, the competitions, oh my. And that is not even including the carousal of their social lives. I actually have less work time during the school year because my “freedom” ends at 2:30 PM and the driving in circles lasts until 9:30 PM.

4. I am not a morning person, a.k.a. “lazy” in the eyes of early risers. Talk about a group who’s sanctimonious. I only want to sleep until 8:00 AM. Is that so wrong? I thought there would be some magic switch when I reached adulthood that would make getting up early easy. As far as I know, there isn’t one because getting up at 6:15 AM is still an act of torture. If you know of such a switch, you should market that on one of those late night infomercials. Because that’s when your audience would be awake. Get it? You could bank some serious coin.

5. Let’s get back to “my kids are teens.” My oldest is a senior. A SENIOR! This is the last summer of spinning in the world as I know it, or at least how I have known it for seventeen years. Next year’s back to school will mean shuttling my girl off to her future and making my nest just a little more empty. What? I have allergies, dammit. IT’S JUST ALLERGIES! Give me a moment . . .

6. Okay, let’s end this list on a rallying point, common ground, something on which we can all agree. PTA/PTO/Boosters/Friends of the School: no matter what you call it, the meetings kill just a little more of your soul each and every time you attend one. Remember that senior I was sniffling over? That means I have been squeezing my tush into school desks for close to thirteen years. My soul is on life support. I know they are necessary, and not always evil, but you know what? I’m going to stop here because if you love these particular coffee clatches of blackboard politics, I’ve insulted you past the brink of indignation anyway. Go ahead and burn my effigy; it’ll make you feel good. Maybe even sanctimonious.

But for those of you I haven’t offended, could we maybe all agree not to judge? For every mom clicking her heels, there may be a mom in need of a hug because her cohorts in fun have gone back to their educational grinds. And if you fall into the latter group, come sit next to me and have a cookie. I understand.

-Ellen

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