Flip the calendar; we made it to June.

I’m tired to the bone… as though I’ve been flattened by an 18-wheeler.

Which means it must be June.

Yea! We survived another season of hell. Most folks refer to this time as April and May, or “spring.”

Not us. One moment it’s late March: you’re cruising down the road, arm dangling out the window, and barely breaking the posted speed of 25 mph.

But flip the calendar to April and suddenly, the gas pedal’s been jammed to the floor. Your skull whacks the headrest as the car takes off, and you’re hurtling down the road at 120 mph, desperately clutching the arm rest and struggling to stay in your lane. The scenery flies by in a blur, but there’s no slowing down. You grit your teeth and white-knuckle the wheel until finally — thankfully — you hit max speed, activating the governor. The car slows, eventually rolling to a stop, and in a daze, you glance around wondering, “Whoa… what just happened?

You have raced through a mish-mash of activities, softball practices, games, parties, school performances, horse shows, hunter paces, steeplechases, pony club, doctor appointments, meetings, end-of-school events — one piled atop the other — for 8 weeks.

Or a marathon 11-weeks, since this year’s hell slopped onto a third page.

Apparently, today is… June 22.

The 22nd? Yowza.

Judging from Facebook, it appears that we party endlessly and trail Brynn and Rocky, obsessively photographing them at various venues.

Really, other stuff has happened. I’m just too tired to name it, or find any gooder words to describe… the other stuff.

So here’s an illustrated glimpse of recent going-ons —  based on iphone photos:

Yes, Brynn gladly accepted a couple of sidesaddle opportunities. (Thanks to Sarah, Liz and the pit crew who assembled child and pony at multiple events.)

And on one occasion, I actually wore a dress. (Yes, I do in fact, own dresses. The hat, however, was a loaner.)

Prior to her sidesaddle debut, Brynn added vaulting to her equestrian resume.

Her glam look was also short lived. Later that day — 50 miles away, with the word “West” inserted before “Virginia” — here she is, a few hours later:

I realize that there are usually two other kids in our possession. At some point in May, my mom whisked them off to France, for a 10-day jaunt in Paris and Provence.

I know, rough life.

Sometimes those kids — including the other one… the small, bossy model — forget how good they have it.

Like the day they set out for the pool, while Martin moved last year’s forage across the loft, and unloaded a hay wagon… in 93-degree heat.

When I discovered those chore dodgers, I accused them of the worst offense. “You’re posers — city kids pretending to be farm kids.”

Brynn burst into tears and wailed inconsolably… as if I’d cursed her very existence. (Nothing worse than being a called a “city.”)

Of course, I’d never curse Brynn. Out loud.

But some days stretched my sanity to its limits…

… and forced me to resort to desperate actions.

Let’s see… what else?

Brynn celebrated a birthday. Cayden “graduated” from elementary school. And Hadley participated in, well… everything.

At present, all 3 are at an undisclosed sleep-away camp. (They don’t want other kids to “discover” their retreat, so they simply call it The Camp. In fact, Hadley glared at me murderously, when I mentioned our drive to West Virginia. Good luck finding them based on that tip.)

In their absence I’ve been trying to restore order. On Monday morning, I composed a list of chores and plotted a clean-up plan.

The mudroom seemed a logical point of attack. I sighed, then waded in.

But that morning, I did not restore order.

I kicked clear a path, slammed the door, and spent the day guarding the couch and the TV.

You never know when they might try to escape.

And me without my dog crate.