Friday afternoon, in what was surely a kick from karma for daring to write that I couldn't wait to spend time with my kids on summer break, my children were driving me crazy. It was Monkey's third day of early dismissal and last day of school and he and Munchkin were taking turns screeching about one offense or the other. "She scratched me!" he said, "Ouchie" she cried. As they fought, I started to consider looking for a part time job so someone else could deal with this madness. 

Before I could pull up a job search website however, the kids started laughing. Then they started pushing each other in the four-wheeled fire truck  and they they started running back and forth, collapsing into the couch in giggles every time. Despite the fact that I felt badly for my downstairs neighbor (I really need to send him a note apologizing for the noise) I was quite pleased with my children. When deciding to have a second child, I wanted to have two kids to hug, love and adore, but the sneaky real reason I had a second was to keep the first one occupied. 

Sure, early on, there were many occasions Monkey told me he wished Munchkin was still in my belly, even though he showed her kindness every day. The first six months of managing two kids drove me and my husband--especially my husband-- to exhaustion. But the love between this big brother and his little sister has been obvious since the beginning. Monkey would give Munchkin kisses, help feed her (it's a messy endeavor for everyone involved) and talk to her while I changed her diapers. When released from her crib every morning, Munchkin would toddle straight over to Monkey's bed and clamber onto him to shower him with kisses. She still does that to this day. 

Now, their affection is a little more nuanced. Monkey still loves playing with her, but has tired of her recent bout of repeated misdemeanors. When she climbed onto the dining room table (again), Monkey proclaimed, "Mami, you should just give her a time out." When she throws her straw cup to the floor, he'll offer to pick it up and tell her "Ultima vez!" (last time!) in the same stern voice I use. At the same time, Munchkin has no qualms about tackling him or selling him out (did I mention her screeching skills?) if he takes a toy out of her hands. 

Now, my children are not saints* that tattletale on each other to save me some trouble. No, they like to work together to cause trouble too. I once noticed some mysterious globs on the floor several inches from Munchkin's booster chair. When I asked what it was, Monkey smiled blandly and said nothing. It was only when I suddenly turned to them and saw Monkey quietly instructing Munchkin, arm outstretched, to tilt the contents of her full spoon onto the ground that I realized what was going on. Monkey tends to follow rules, but he seems to enjoy helping Munchkin break them. He'll encourage her to push buttons, goad her to dump out toys and instruct her on how to create utter disaster. It's frustrating in a sense, but I secretly find it hilarious. (Don't quote me on that when I'm holding a mop or broom required to clean up said mess.) I like that Monkey is well behaved, but happy to see he has a rebellious side and, above all, glad they like teaming up to complete a task. 

One day, these tales will be things I can share with them and, more importantly they can share with each other. Long after my husband and I are gone, I'd like to think that they'll be laughing their heads off at their antics. Yes, they fight sometimes, but they play a lot together too. And, at the end of the day, my favorite sight on earth is one that happened almost every day after school this year. Munchkin, in her stroller would hold out her hand, and Monkey, on his scooter, would take it. Then they'd scoot and sit hand in hand until we got home. 

*I'm pretty sure that "saint" as I have used it is not exactly what the Catholics have in mind.

Last night, I had the opportunity to watch the US Women's Soccer Team play against Korea. I wasn't sure I could summon the energy to go for the evening game, especially when I realized that I wouldn't be able to sit with friends. However, I'd seen the American women win Olympic gold in Athens in 2004 and I knew I shouldn't miss the opportunity to see this generation's team play before my eyes. I bought a ticket, fed the kids and flew out the door when my husband arrived. 

As I walked into the stadium, there were girls everywhere with US soccer jerseys that said, "Wambach," "Morgan" and "Solo." There were girls as young as 5 and as old as 17, all traipsing into the stadium in groups or with their parents. Never have I seen so many girls going to an arena like I did yesterday. I know there are huge female fan bases for a myriad of other sports, but this felt different. I felt as if this sea of girls was flooding the stadium and carrying the rest of us--women, men, parents and brothers--along for a ride. These girls, with their red, white and blue jerseys were telling us, "I know there are amazing male athletes, but I want to see these women play. I know there are singers, models and dancers I could choose as role models, but I want to follow in the footsteps of these women. See how lesbian and straight women play together without fanfare? See how women of different shapes and sizes work together? See how each woman has a different skill, but the same value? THIS is what I want to see." 

I'm a huge fan of the women whose names graced many a jersey at Red Bull Arena--Abby Wambach, Alex Morgan, Hope Solo, Megan Rapinoe and Christie Rampone--just as I was of Mia Hamm, Julie Foudy, Brandi Chastain, Kristine Lilly, and Briana Scurry in the 90s. Hamm and her teammates were pioneers for women in sports, winning the World Cup and Olympic Gold, attracting thousands of girls to soccer for the first time. They found--no, earned--a level of international success still not matched by the US Men's Soccer Team. 

During the game I saw athletic women--young and not so young, short and tall, slim and curvy--work together to defeat Korea. Not only that, I got to see history being made as Wambach--chasing Hamm's record of scoring 158 goals in career international play--first matched the record, and then beat it by two. Wambach scored four goals in the first half. The crowd went wild every single time, but especially when she broke the record. These girls--
young and not so young, short and tall, slim and curvy--knew what the record meant, even though some of them weren't even born when Hamm set it. These girls jumped up and down for joy and, being young and hip, posted pictures on social media to share that joy. I too jumped for joy because in a world where people are famous for being famous, here were 18,000 people cheering on true athletes and pioneers who happened to be women.

21 years after Title IX, my daughter is going to reap the benefits of equality and the tenacity of these women. She will have strong role models in soccer, gymnastics or snow-boarding and probably some sport yet to be invented. She will, I hope, live in a world where women's teams will sell out stadiums as often as men's teams. 

After the game, Wambach's mother came onto the field and tearily hugged her record-setting daughter. Wambach graciously thanked her family for their support and her teammates for contributing to her success. After the cheers subsided, but the celebration on the field continued, I saw two little girls with the number "3" on their backs. The little one looked to be Munchkin's size and she, along with her sister, ran to her mother, Rampone. As Wambach's mother wept and Rampone's daughters scampered around the field, I knew I'd seen history and I'd seen the future. I can't wait for the ride.

Monkey's school ends in three--count'em: 1, 2, 3--days. I know I should be worried about having both kids with me full-time and concerned about maintaining my sanity* for the next two months. I should smack my head in preparation for the tedium and boredom that comes with long hot days stretching in front of me. Instead I'm excited. I'm happy because after hearing Monkey say he wanted to stay home during the school year, I can finally say, "Yes, you're staying home!" I'm delighted because I don't have to pack lunches for two months. Jubilant because I don't have to get both kids dressed, fed and out the door at 7:45 every morning. To top it off,  the kids have been sleeping in (by which I mean, sleeping until 7am) for the last three days which means that maybe, just maybe, I can peacefully sleep past 6am on a regular basis.

I have big plans for the summer. I want to have slumber parties with my niece and nephew and day-long visits with my mom without having to rush home for pick-up. I'm signing the kids up for music and soccer classes. I'm planning to enjoy the splash pads at every playground in town and, with four playgrounds in my neighborhood alone, we'll be busy! I want us all to laze around in pajamas some days and have play-dates with some of my favorite mom friends and their kids on other days. I plan on taking the ferry to Manhattan playgrounds and kids' museums too. I want the kids to help me cook and I want to potty train Munchkin, though not at the same time. 

I'm pretty sure I was excited about summertime as a kid and how I feel now is comparable. The overriding thought is, "I get to stay home with my kids." I know that when my kids are older, I'll have a full-time job and instead of dreaming of playtime fun, I'll have to worry about summer camps, babysitters and making the most of vacation days. Soon enough my kids won't want to hang out with me and instead will dump me for their friends. Soon enough, there will be summer school, sports camp or traveling soccer teams to worry about. But for now, I get to be home with the kids. I get to plan some fun stuff and I get to cuddle with my kids all day. Sure, they'll drive me crazy and I may pull out my hair, but summer is here and we are going to make the most of it. 

*I can hear my neighbor, mother of five kids, laughing at the thought of being stressed about managing two kids for a pidly two months.

Almost 9 years ago, I did my first triathlon. It was an Olympic-distance triathlon which meant I had to swim almost one mile, bike 25 miles and run 6.2 miles. Before I started training, I was a good runner, but I hadn't biked for a decade and my swimming had been limited to short distances in calm waters. The swim portion of this race was to be held in the Hudson River where I'd be racing alongside dozens of other women who would bump and kick me (accidentally, I hope!) so I needed help preparing. Inspired by the firefighters cheering me on at the NYC Marathon a few years earlier, I decided to team up with a local organization which would provide training in exchange for fundraising. After four months of swimming, biking and running all over Manhattan, I was ready and had a terrific race. The hiccup to this story isn't the first time I did the race, but the second time. The next year I did the same triathlon without the help of a coach or even a consistent training schedule. 

When I nervously jumped into the water, I did not feel confident and, as I looked down the length of the river, wondered how I would complete the long swim and reach the finish line. I knew I had not spent enough time at the pool training and I hadn't spent any time swimming in open water. When the gun went off, I started swimming, but soon got nervous and looked up.  When I looked up, I lost my rhythm and started treading water, too nervous to duck my head into the water and keep going. This was exacerbated by the fact that I had to "sight," that is, look up and make sure I was headed in the the right direction since I didn't have lane lines and pool walls to guide me. Again and again, I swam, sighted, treaded water, panicked and started swimming again. It seemed that everyone in my heat finished and swimmers from other heats started to pass me too. As I swam, I berated myself for my lack of training and for my sense of panic. I also worried about my twin, faithfully watching from the shore, who was surely wondering where I was. I thought about quitting the race, but knew I had to keep going. Finally, I made it, finishing 5 minutes slower that I had the year before. My sister and my friends didn't care that I was slow, they were just happy to see me. The cheered and yelled my name and I realized that it didn't matter how slow I was, but that I was still in the race. I tore off the wetsuit, biked 25 miles, ran a quick 10k and, exhausted, made it to the finish line.

Now, years since the triathlon, finishing that swim has served me in many ways. I've realized that when I don't want to do something that has to get done, I know to push myself to to the start and jump in. I may pause and look around every once in a while, but then I duck my head and keep going. When I'm procrastinating for too long, I remind myself that I can't finish what I don't start. Once I start, the momentum will eventually propel me forward. The relief of completing a distasteful task greatly outweighs the "fun" had in delaying it. 

On days that the "momotony" of daily chores--sweeping, washing, laundry, wiping, teaching--gets to be too much. The days where I really want to crawl back into bed and take a 5-day-nap, I remind myself that if I can dive into a moving, rolling river with hundreds of people and successfully swim 1500 meters of it, I can certainly take a breath, duck my head and just keep going. So I do, over and over again.