Quarantine Kids & the Endless Summer Side Hustle

“Why didn’t we get a pool like everyone else?”

My eight-year old stares from our kitchen window into the neighbor’s yard. The injustice of a pool-free backyard during the Summer of Covid is too much for him and his ten-year-old brother to bear.

“Because other parents love their children more.”

I sympathize. It really does feel like we're the only family not beefing up our back yard this pandemic summer with a new pool, trampoline, rock climbing wall or sport court. 

The Boys (aforementioned 8-year-old and his 10-year-old brother) spent weeks walking the neighborhood looking as pitiful as they could, hoping for an invitation to one of the Corona country clubs that have popped up in other people’s backyards. 

Alas, spots on those guest lists are limited as families hunker down with restricted access to their pandemic pods.

For now, I don’t worry as much about academic deficits from e-learning as I do about the social effects of prolonged isolation from their friends. 

A summer of Zoom pool parties is not going to cut it. (Particularly since we’d be participating in said pool parties without a pool. Awkward.)

Admittedly, they have done a good job entertaining themselves with Catan, LEGOs, an invented war game with indeterminate rules that involves our dog wearing a cammo shirt, and trailing me around the house dissertating on the merits of Star Wars vs. Harry Potter. 

Another pastime involves sprinting across the living room and flinging oneself  into the couch as hard as possible. 

We have the only Alexa in the history of Amazon who categorically refuses to answer any more questions. If she had arms, she’d have dropped the mic months ago.

Eventually, they realized the phrase "I'm bored" holds no quarter with me, and drifted into creating side hustles with the apparent purpose of milking whatever money they can out of me, my husband and the occasional relative. The appeal of generating their own cash flow seems like the perfect rite of passage for this Endless Summer.

In the olden times, my husband would grab coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts on his way to work. The boys created a coffee stand in the living room, which means they bring a mug of iced coffee from the kitchen and place it on the coffee table for my husband to pick up. (“This is probably the first time the coffee table has been used for actual coffee,” the older one rightly observed.) 

Their dad plays along and retrieves his “order” every morning before his commute to the attic where he's set up an office.  

They tried charging their father money for their coffee service.

“Iced coffee is $5.00, Dad.”

“You know I can get free coffee in the kitchen, right?”

“But I’m saving for Star Wars AT-AP Lego Walker. It’s 750 pieces!”

“This coffee stand doesn’t even offer donuts.”

“I’ll speak to management.”

“By management I assume you mean your mother and I guarantee your mother is not making donuts. You’re not the Farmer’s Market.”

“If I was the Farmer’s Market I could charge $12 for coffee and $3.00 for a donut. I’ll make you a deal. How about $3.50 for the coffee?”

“How about no?”

“I’ll just put that on your tab,” says younger son, using one finger to write the total on an imaginary notepad in his other hand.

(My husband is right by the way; there’s no way in hell I’m making or even buying donuts. My pandemic schedule doesn’t allow me to get out of bed that early.)

For weeks we've played along and "bought" their questionable Hand-Crafted Artisan Sandwiches made from food in our own refrigerator, and Heirloom Salad Dressing made by dropping blueberries into a jar of vinegar, oil, and what I think are supposed to be herbs but looks like it might be grass clippings.

I keep track of their "earnings" with a virtual piggy bank app on my phone, though it’s nothing more than a running tab of funny money. I suppose it could be real money if we allowed them to cash out, but what are we? FDIC insured? Pffft.

I agree to any price for whatever they want to sell me, unlike their father. I think I “paid” $150 for a soap dish made from LEGOs. For Father’s Day, I might have paid $300 for a bespoke marshmallow toasting stick whittled from a twig with my husband's initials carved into the bark.

They should have their college tuition covered in a matter of months — as long as they attend a college where the bursar accepts a screenshot of a pretend bank account as tuition. Then again, maybe they'll still be e-learning by then.

The downside is that instead of lying on their bedroom floor counting bills and coins earned from a lemonade stand, they ask to view their side-hustle balance on my phone 37 times a day.

“You have the same amount of money in your account as you did three hours ago,” I tell them. “This account doesn’t accrue any interest let alone hourly interest,” 

Mental note: cross bank teller off "List of Possible Jobs I Could Have".

Some of their entrepreneurial ventures are sweet, like the “zoo” created for their toddler cousins, arranging stuffed animals and dinosaurs throughout the house. 

They only charged my sister $180 per ticket; I floated her a fake loan so her kids could have fun at the fake zoo. 

Though we did overhear, “Please exit through the gift shop!” and discovered younger son attempting to sell his brother’s belongings as souvenirs.

I soon developed a serious case of side-hustle FOMO. 

Why should those two make all the fake money? 

I came up with a plan to charge my children a fee to access their favorite Room of All Rooms.

Starting next week, in the area of our home formerly known as “The Kitchen”, I'll be launching an exclusive Members Only club called...“The Kitchen”.

I distributed membership brochures at breakfast:

A VIP All Access Pass to The Kitchen starts  is just $1,946,342 per month.

Your Membership privileges include tickets to our Special Event Series featuring:

Let’s Find A Snack: For members ages 5-8. Receive five minutes to rifle willy nilly through every cabinet, drawer and shelf in The Kitchen in search of Something To Eat, even though you may have finished lunch twenty minutes ago. (Don’t miss the follow-up lecture for tweens: There’s Nothing To Eat.)

Save the date for our members-only field trip Mom Said Go Outside. Bring a water bottle and sunscreen for an afternoon spent aimlessly riding your bike and playing endless games of HORSE on the lone basketball hoop in the church parking lot someone forgot to remove from the backboard when the world turned upside down. 

*Note The Kitchen will be off-limits to Members during this time with all entrances securely locked. Go to the bathroom before you leave. Wash your hands. Use soap. No you can’t use the neighbor’s bathroom. No you can’t come inside to refill your water bottle, that’s what the hose is for. Management appreciates your understanding while we do “Maintenance” on The Kitchen. And by maintenance I mean watching Hamilton in peace on Disney+. 

Join us for a Panel Discussion: “Pouting: Does it Really Work?”  Advice from pro pouters will take your pouting to a new level . Master the art of the scowl, the glower, and the petulant moue.  Don't miss next month's “Sulking: Tips & Tricks”.

Younger son finishes reading his brochure. “This is all well and good, Mom,” he says, “But you know what your fancy kitchen club still doesn’t have?”

“What’s that?”

“A pool.”