what are you doing this summer?

Why do I always feel guilty when I’m asked that question? I don’t have any big plans. I’m not writing a book. I’m not teaching summer school. I’m not traveling Europe for six weeks. I’m playing softball. I workout every day. I read novels. I root, root, root for the Cubbies. Is there something else I should be doing?

Today, as I type this, Sydney eases into her morning by watching a cartoon on the Disney channel. Morgan sleeps on the floor in the living room. The birds sing joyfully outside under the bright morning sky. It’s cold out. I recline on a love seat and type words that maybe ten people will read–more than usually read the crap I write.

People who ask me this question typically think of work as something you go to 8 to 5 every day, and then you come home and forget about it. For the next three months or so, I get up, stretch, read the newspaper, shower, read the bible, play with Morgan and Sydney, eat, workout, scribble thoughts in a mead composition notebook, shoot hoops in the driveway, read 19th century European masterpieces, weed whack the lawn, check the vegetables growing in the garden, walk down the street with “mama”, Syd, and Morgan to look at frogs and turtles in the pond, clean out my closet, reorganize my office, and so on and so forth.

Sometimes at night Sydney asks for some dancing music, and I turn it up loud and we dance.

Why should anyone feel guilty about this?