Somewhere on the kitchen table—under a dying crockpot, a rabies vaccination certificate, and a pile of assorted other detritus—are two packets. I hated the two packets on sight two months ago, and I hate them now. They remain untouched. I know we have to do something about that, but I am gritting my teeth.

Summer homework. Summer reading lists. Summer “enrichment” plans.

Yeahhh. Single Mommy don’t play that.

My divorced, conspiracy-theorist brain is certain that summer homework is one of those things dreamed up by the smugly coupled-off, those from affluent nuclear families, or those without actual breathing, sweating, fidgeting children living with them during actual summers. In my life, there is no one to help muscle the kids into making summer reading charts, no one else to concoct new bribery schemes.

I am not amused by you, Packets.

Oh, don’t you dare mutter under your breath about the sacred love of learning. My kids love to learn, but homework in the summer is crapola, says this Cranky Single Mom at Work. The political correctness of summer homework galls me.

We play. We take day trips. There’s the occasional play date. We clean the house. We watch Project Runway on Netflix. We read every night. I resent making their reading another list item, another proper goal to be checked off.

They are nine and six. Summer should feel like summer—unfettered, playful, open—when you are nine and six. It will lose its sunny, carefree patina too soon anyway.

Phooey.