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A Dad's Desperate Ode to Summer

There are other seasons besides summer, of course, but as a dad I really don’t know why that is.

Don’t get all in a huff about it now!

I like a pile of autumn leaves as much as the next guy. And hey, with spring’s arrival, I’m the guy who wanders out into the yard to bask in the first warm beams of April sunshine when they finally appear (in mid-May usually).

And as soon as Old Man Winter rattles my frosted panes, you know you can find me walking around in a haze of seasonal glow, probably headed out into the snowy fields for a sleigh ride with my two Clydesdales: Currier & Ives.

As far as seasons that make sense though, I’d have to reserve my vote (and yours) for that grand old dame of hot firefly nights, summer.

When else can you wake up in the morning and dress the kids in less than six or seven hours. Gone are the wasted mornings of piling on layer upon layer, sweater upon sweater, until your poor child looks like some kind of sicko serial killer’s potato sack filled with frozen human heads left on the side of some Godforsaken arctic ice road.

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Puh-leeeeeze, people. Give me those bright, warm summer mornings any day.

“Here kids! Here’s a pair of shorts and the same muddy tank top you wore yesterday,” I holler as I toss the tiny clothes into the air and they somehow magically just fall down perfectly onto their little bodies without any fuss at all. Sock-less feet slip right into some sport sandals* and away we go!

Later, there is none of this windy, chilly bullcrap that has come to define the other three "Loser Seasons" for me. We head out to the Honda to head to preschool or maybe to the park, and guess what? We’re not knocking at freaking death’s door, fighting our way through a sleeting gauntlet of icy daggers just so we can go about our day.

And another thing, too: I don’t trust people or animals who claim they don’t like ice cream, and so I damn sure don’t trust any long chunks of the calendar when it’s really uncomfortable to eat it.

Think about that for a second.

Why should my kids, or your kids for that matter, have to miss out on having a little soft-serve vanilla in a sugar cone whenever they want?

Why does a good, law-abiding father like me deserve days upon days/weeks upon weeks/months upon stupid months when it’s actually some kind of health hazard to my sad meat locker innards if I want to park out in back of the truck stop by myself and get nasty with a 68-ounce ChocoCherry Cinnabon Dairy Queen Blizzard?

And, on that note, why should my kids—or your kids for that matter—have to miss out on having a little soft-serve vanilla in a sugar cone whenever they want, instead of having, like, this one selfish 60-day window a year to enjoy it in?

Somebody answer me.

NASA?

NASCAR?

CIA?

CNN?

NBA?

Someone?

Anyone?!

Who the hell understands why we are being forced to drag our battered souls through almost 10 decades a year of Game of Thrones winter time? And yes, as a matter of fact, now that I am 41 years old and sun crazy I am officially declaring all those other three "Loser Seasons" as winter.

I want to drag the play pool out to the yard and let it sit there forever. And I want the kids to be able to hit it whenever they want.

I want to carve jack-o'-lanterns in 90-degree heat.

I want to Skype people on Christmas morning from under a palm tree by the swimmable sea.

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I know it’s only July, but I’m already afraid of what’s coming on quick. Me, my wife, the dogs, and these kids all packed into this house as the four winds grab at the flimsy roof and Old Man Winter tries to lure us outside with a weak, stale beam of lazy light, just so he can eat us up with his stalactite teeth.

Oh man. Oh summertime, I love you so much.

The rest of you are just The Shining on a loop.

*Adults should never ever, under any circumstances, attempt to don sport sandals.

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