Why is it that the next eleven weeks will inevitably feel so much longer than any other eleven weeks of the year?

I've always liked to be alone. My sisters are 10 and 11 years older than I am and I grew up in a neighborhood that didn't really have many other kids in it to play with, so growing up I got pretty used to being by myself.

Other people I've spoken to that were only children or were otherwise forced to learn to play by themselves have lamented it and wished they had siblings to play with growing up.  But me? I never once wished I had grown up with a sibling sharing a room with me or fighting over what channel to watch or hogging the bathroom.

I've always loved my space.

Alone time is practically non-existent in my life right now. Four other people live in this house and I am the person who makes sure they eat and bathe. (The Man usually bathes on his own, actually... but you know what I mean.)

So that's why I'm a little melancholy as I type this.  Because yesterday was officially the first day of summer.

The absolute end of my little bit of alone time every day. The beginning of long days listening to my children complain that they are bored and then proceed to beat the crap out of each other. The end of structured days and the beginning of chaos.

Not that there aren't benefits, because there are. The summer always holds a promise of flexibility. The ability to jump in the car on any given day and go somewhere special. Trips to the beach, the library, afternoon movies, and maybe even a visit to see Bubby & Granddaddy in North Carolina.

In the summer we can stay up late on a Tuesday and eat popcorn for dinner while watching a silly movie. We can roll out of bed whenever we please and spend all day coloring pictures and building lego creations.

Not that I've ever spent all day coloring pictures or that I've ever built a lego creation.

But I could.

And maybe I will one day this summer. Maybe that would be just as good as alone time.

But probably not.