"You should be a teacher," my neighbor told me last week.

"No," I said. "I'd be a terrible teacher."

She frowned at me in a friendly way. "I see you with your boys. You have patience and energy. You'd be a great teacher."

"I have patience for them because they're my kids," I said. "If they weren't my kids, I'd kill them."

"My oldest daughter always said she wouldn't be a teacher," she clucked at me. I know the rest of the story: Her daughter teaches at the National Cathedral School.

People tell me this all the time, by the way. A lot of folks think I should be a teacher. My wife. Friends of ours. Just about everyone except the teachers at Sam's preschool (who have seen me in action as a co-oping parent) and me. And those teachers know the truth: I may have the patience, but I don't have the interest. I'll play with kids, and I'll wipe their butts, but I really don't have the motivation to sit down and create anything resembling a lesson plan.

This summer is a case in point. My wife has been on me since March to set up a summer schedule so that I can maximize opportunities. She would have liked to see a chart like this:

Monday: library, pool, playdate with xyx
Tuesday: museum, playdate with xyz, park
Wednesday: park, Slip'n'slide, playdate with xyz
Thursday: library, pool, museum, park, Slip'n'slide, playdate with xyz

She has about a year of vacation coming to her, so she's taking Fridays off. I'm off the hook there.

Here's what happened a couple weeks ago:

Monday: grocery shopping, play inside during the heat of the afternoon, soccer/mosquito slapping
Tuesday: library, inside, scooter/tricycle/bicycle riding
Wednesday: playdate with xyz, inside, neighborhood playgroup
Thursday: lunch at park, inside, Slip'n'slide

I think it's the fact that lunch is the first thing we did on Thursday is what really drags down the second list. But see, that's what happens when you make your plans after you wake up. The thing is, I like planning on a day-to-day basis. It's a comfortable and relaxed way to live.

Unfortunately, that's not what's happening right now. I'm in the middle of two tightly-scheduled weeks. Sam went to summer camp at his preschool last week, and Max has two weeks of swim lessons on Monday, Wednesday and Friday both last week and this week. On Wednesday, he figured out that he actually could swim. Sam spent his school week basking in the glow of his friends--without a whole lot of active interaction on his part. He loved every minute of it. So it's not like these activities are completely without merit.

But this schedule has meant that I've had to get up at 7:30--school year time. And it's not really the time that bothers me, as our family wakes up around that time every morning. It's the fact that I have to get up and get going at 7:30. I'd rather goof off, get a shower in around 8:30 and then scrounge up some breakfast, like I had been doing the first month of summer.

And Friday won't end this summer madness. At the end of the month, Max has all-day soccer camp. He'll be immersed in roundball from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon. Which means I actually have to get him there (and pack a lunch!) by nine in the morning. Not unlike school

Then we'll have a week at the beach and only a couple more weeks before school starts again. Summer will be over, and we'll be back to living our usual harried existence on a full-time basis.

We should figure out a way to live more calmly and put together a schedule where we're not pushing our kids to fill their days with structured activities. We should live like it's summer all year-round. As long as the kids get to school. With lunches, of course. And my wife actually goes to work five days a week. And we figure out ways to see all of our friends. And every once in a while buy groceries. And clothes. And beer. And maybe squeeze in some time for a bike ride. And plan a weekend out of town. And...

Ah, forget all that! We should relax and live like it's summer year all year round. And I should be a teacher.

Except that two shoulds don't make a will. Even if they, um, should.

Jon Worley should stop.