Free Time For Kids in Summer? Forget it

I received something interesting in the mail the other day. No, not an actual letter. Who sends letters anymore? I can think of only three groups of people who send real, live, honest-to-goodness letters. They are, in no particular order:

1. The Amish
2. Career felons in the state pen
3. My grandma, who is neither Amish nor a career felon

Anyway, what I received was a magazine listing all the community activities, both adult and youth, for this summer in my city. Naturally, I leafed through the magazine. In fact, I read the entire thing. And my mind reeled with possibilities.

Did you know I can take a class on cooking Hungarian goulash? Hungarian goulash! I had no idea there were even different kinds of goulash. And why are they emphasizing Hungarian goulash? I can walk my town's sidewalks for weeks and not bump into a single Hungarian. It's like offering a class on Cajun gumbo in Grand Forks, North Dakota. It makes no sense, yet I find it oddly compelling. I may sign up.

I can also, if I were so inclined, take classes on line dancing (That sounds uncomfortably like country music), tai chi (I thought that was what you asked if you were looking for a toilet in Beijing. Am I wrong?), singing, jazzercise (I look fabulous in stretch pants. Don't tell me otherwise.), and creative drawing.

I can take classes to learn how to lower my taxes by 50 percent (This may or may not be legal. The course description doesn't go into detail.), speak conversational Spanish in six weeks, get a low-cost bone exam (See? This is why I eat a heaping bowl of ice cream every night - lots and lots of calcium. I eat so much ice cream my bones can scratch diamonds.), play cards on Friday nights with senior citizens, and learn how to waterboard my pesky neighbors while a cardboard cutout of a grinning Dick Cheney looms over my shoulder (All right, I made that last one up.).

Just as importantly, the publication is filled with activities for my children. This summer they can participate in tumbling, sidewalk drawing, cheerleading, bumper bowling, baton twirling, cartooning, theater, magic, writing camp, spelling camp, handwriting camp, and math camp.

Spelling camp? Really?

They can also take private lessons in just about every sport you can think of except for sword fighting, chainsaw juggling, and bungee jumping off the roof of the house.

I can have their entire summer schedule programmed down to the minute: this, then this, then this, then this this this this this this this.

An enlightened critic would no doubt angrily tell me that this is a chilling example of bad over-parenting. I need to let my kids be kids, the critic would huff. Stop controlling their lives. Let them play on their own. Let them explore. Shove them outside at dawn and drag them back in at dusk.

To this I say: You're nuts, Mrs. Cleaver. Stop living in 1954.

The biggest problem in Cleaverworld was Whitey and Lumpy and Eddie Haskell getting heartburn from the peanut butter sandwiches and milk Beaver's mom sent out to them. Now? There are teenagers crushing Bud Lights down at the corner park. Some other bright bulbs are spray painting graffiti on wood fences and throwing rocks at passing cars. And I think there's a registered sex offender lving two neighborhoods over.

Are you kidding? I'm not letting my kids out of my sight.

Besides, who doesn't want to learn magic? Or how to make balloon animals? That sounds a lot more wholesome than being unchaperoned over at little Billy's house duct taping the cat to his garage and peeing on his mom's petunias.

No, I think I'll be signing them up for things.

Lots of things.

And me? I'm just saving room for that Hungarian goulash.