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Freedom! I was thrilled to be out with my husband, without our kids, for the first time in what seemed like a long time.

Our kids, safe and happy in the bosom of our extended family, were unlikely to miss us. We had spent the day in the lake and on the beach, alternately soaking up water and sunshine like sponges. They were wiped out.

What to do with ourselves?

Dinner? Definitely. Drinks? Absolutely. Parking? Err….excuse me? Parking? Really?

I am not old in the sense that my joints are still working properly; I can choose to participate in athletic activities without fearing a total body breakdown. I like trying new things and consider myself relatively adventurous—rock climbing, skydiving and bungee jumping are all bumps in my past. But truly, I feel too old to go parking.

My husband shrugged. I reconsidered. Exhaustion and excitement dueled with each other. He glanced at me sideways and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Oh hell. Why not.

We cruised around searching for a secluded enough spot. In the deepening twilight, we traversed the back roads of my youth. He stopped the car and reached for me. And then…headlights appeared in the distance.

Sadly, the moment was gone. We laughed about having to explain ourselves to some law enforcement official or concerned citizen and then drove back to camp.

Fortunately, we had our own bedroom.

I grew up in a place where hunting was not only for sport, where it was not uncommon to hand-raise the animals that would later be featured on your dinner plate, where you might choose to keep the body of the moose that just crushed the front end of your pick-up truck.

As a consequence, when it comes to the death of a four-legged creature, I am a bit more hardy than your average suburbanite.

This is not to say that I don’t feel bad when I run over a squirrel, hit a bird, or squish a frog with my car. (Alright, I confess: minivan. There. I’ve said it. No judging. It’s a practicality that I will be thrilled to discard when the time comes. Let’s move on.)

We were driving to camp late one night. I had Medium and Large with me; my husband was transporting Small separately. I was tired but I couldn’t wait to get to our rented cabin.

I had hoped the kids would sleep on the three hour drive from home but they were equally excited and had kept themselves awake by singing Viva La Vida in rounds at the top of their lungs. I was driving slightly faster than was legally permissible.

By the time I noticed it crouched by the side of the road, it was too late. It scuttled. I swerved. And then that sickly sweet smell permeated everything.

“What was THAT?” called Liam from the way-back.

“Oh, honey, it was…” I felt awful. Poor little thing hadn’t had a chance when my hulking vehicle bore down on it.

“Was it a SKUNK?” he cried. “I know it was a skunk because I saw the white stripe and then I felt the bump and now it smells bad and…” The current of his stream of consciousness carried him to the inevitable conclusion: “YOU KILLED IT!”

“I’m sorry, Liam! Obviously, I didn’t mean to hit him. It’s dark and he ran right out into the road.”

“There he was, minding his own business and then YOU came along and killed him!” He accused me like a prosecutor in front of an attentive jury.

Nora’s softer voice queried, “Is the skunk dead?”

“Oh yeah, he’s dead!” Liam responded.

“Mommy killed the skunk!” The jury had bought it. Everyone but the defendant burst into tears.

I rolled my eyes at all the drama.

“Liam! Nora! Stop it. I didn’t mean to do it. Sometimes, things like this happen. It was an accident.” I paused. The smell was overwhelming. “Ugh. It stinks!”

Liam sniffed and made choking noises. “You know what that smell is?”

I was weary of this conversation. “It’s the skunk’s spray.”

“You know what that smell is?”

His repeating himself was not a good sign. The van reeked to high heaven, we were miles from our destination, and Liam was running along the ridge-line of hysteria.

Nora took the bait. “What is it?”

His voice rang with reproach. “It’s the Smell of Sadness.”

Red cabins, backlit by the morning sun. Mist blankets the surface of the lake. Colorful towels flap in the breeze. The crunch of gravel announces an approaching guest. The screen door slaps. Laughter. Crayfish city. Freshwater clams. The ever-present purr of a jet ski. Five minutes of blessed sunshine for every fifty minutes of cloud cover. The slap of waves against the kayak. Cold beer. The company of good friends. Watermelon. S’mores. Sticky faces and hands. An uncomfortably small shower stall. The happy shrieks of children who have made a discovery–perhaps a new friend, an old crustacean, an almost tame flock of ducks. Or maybe it’s the certainty that life, in that moment, is good.

This is Summer.

He crept down the stairs carefully. He had been charged with a mission. His small chest expanded with pride even as he considered the difficult nature of his task.

He padded over to the wall separating the living spaces and peered around the edge of the doorframe.

She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Bothered was seated at the kitchen counter, her brow furrowed and her expression inscrutable.

He took a deep breath. It was time. He entered the room with his head held high.

“Mommy?” he queried, his voice shaking only a little. “S’okay to get up now?”

He watched his mother turn away from the seductive glow of the computer screen. He tensed his body—prepared to flee upstairs in an instant should it be required.

She met his eyes and smiled. “Yes,” she said in a convivial tone, “I think you’ve had a long enough nap.”

Success! He immediately ran to inform his Queen.

“Oh, yay! Nowa! Mommy not gwumpy anymore!”

Nora accepted the news calmly from her seat at the top of the stairs. Nodding her approval, she told him, “Good job, Henry.”

It irritates me to no end when I speak to the kids and they ignore me. Regrettably, this happens regularly. So much so, that my inner banshee is often exposed. I’m sure my neighbors love it.

“LIAM/NORA/HENRY! DID YOU HEAR ME?”

Although my focus group is admittedly small, from the data I’ve collected thus far, I’ve extrapolated that the Discriminating Auditory Disorder presents earlier in X/Y chromosome holders than in those who possess the double X.

Regardless of the delayed manifestation, friends with teenage daughters have assured me that the disorder intensifies exponentially in X/X chromosome holders beginning around age 12.

X/X holders may outgrow this affliction. However, X/Y holders are always at risk of becoming full-fledged DADs who will unknowingly pass the trait along to their progeny.