By Jon Show – It’s really pathetic how little I did this summer. Like, sad and ridiculous how little I did, and I can’t figure out why.

If I reflect on the last 18 years since having kids, every summer has been packed with things to do.

The daylight hours were filled with work, daycare and summer camp drop-off and pickup, cooking dinner, playing catch and throwing them in the pool to avoid bath time.

Every night the Mother of Dragons returned home from work to put the kids to bed, and I would disappear on my skateboard because I detested bedtime.

She would descend from upstairs roughly 30 minutes later and ask me if the kids took a bath before bed.

“Yes, of course.”

And then we sat down to dinner that was prepared much more honestly than any answer I gave about my parenting performance that day.

Missing person

Maybe the issue is that I was content to do nothing for the first time in a long time this summer.

I loved the busy summers of yesteryear, but I don’t think I miss the craziness that much, if I’m being honest. I listen some nights from my back porch as the CrossFit Couple returns home from the pool and reminisce about the many summer nights I did the same, until I hear Thing 1 and Thing 2 crying from their car seats about having to go to bed.

It’s nice to walk inside, close the sliding door and leave the chaos of kids’ summer bedtimes behind me without having to grab my skateboard.

Why I’ve decided to fill that void by doing absolutely nothing confounds me. I mean, it really confuses me. Mostly because I don’t even care that much. I just feel like I’m being lazy and not taking advantage of an opportunity to do something.

I talked about going to see The Odyssey for two weeks but never did, so I missed out on seeing it on the big screen and don’t feel like paying $18 to watch it on the regular Birkdale screens that don’t even feel like you’re at the movies.

I went to bed each Friday night with some plan for the next day, but most Saturdays I woke up, let out the dog, got smacked in the face with suffocating heat and humidity, and closed the door, content to sip coffee and see what the day brought.

But more often than not, it brought nothing.

Food critic

The Mother of Dragons and I have eaten out a lot more this summer than we have since, I don’t know, the last Bush administration.

Which is nice. I’ve been cooking two or three meals a day for nearly 20 years, and sometimes I get tired of it. There’s a reason every chef in the world loves Waffle House, and it ain’t because of the cuisine.

We’ve eaten out enough this summer to discover new things we like at restaurants: the pork Milanese at NY Butcher Shoppe, the happy hour oysters at Seaboy and the New Orleans shrimp at Fin & Fino.

Each Wednesday I go somewhere different for lunch, if for no other reason than to spend money at local businesses.

The Goi Ga at Pho Nam. The fried chicken at BP on Beatties Ford. Strip mall and gas station food reaffirms my belief in a culinary higher power.

What’s next?

But other than that, I have sat with nothing to do. Like an empty nester, but with birds who still live in the nest, eat all our food, poop in the nest and squawk late into the night.

I’ve been content each night to make dinner for the Mother of Dragons, maybe watch a TV show and call the dog upstairs after she goes to bed so I can scratch her belly.

The dog’s belly, not my wife’s. I don’t think she’d like that very much.

I developed a real affinity for Family Feud this summer. If you’re not watching it at night, I’d highly suggest it. If for no other reason than it’ll make you feel very smart.

Last week I saw an episode where one guy went to hit his buzzer to answer the question and just slapped the table in front of him, looking completely confused about what went wrong.

I laughed for a full minute, then opened my phone and submitted an application for our family to appear on Family Feud.

Will we get on it? Probably not. But I dream of looking down the line at my family and watching Future Man try to conjure up one of the top five reasons a child’s bedroom might smell like flatulence at all times.

“Uh, protein powder, Steve?”

Good answer, buddy. Good answer.

Life’s a garden, dig it?

There was a time in my life when I fought with my yard all summer, trying to bring browning grass back to life and eliminate every weed as soon as it poked its ugly head above my blanket of fescue.

But I don’t care anymore. What’s the point? I’ll just regrow whatever dies in September or October when the temperatures dip below the surface of Mercury.

As I write this, we have our annual beach trip planned in a couple of weeks.

I love the beach, but I loved the beach more with younger kids. It was just more fun. They wanted to do stuff all day and practically jumped at the suggestion of doing anything.

Now they bring friends, so when I ask if they want to do something, I get one of two responses.

“Uh, why?” That’s a tough retort to come back from. “I don’t know. I thought it would be fun?”

Or this one: “Oh yeah, that sounds awesome!” But then they grab a surfboard or a crab trap or a fishing pole and run off with their friends without me.

Now that they’re older and bring friends, I also have to figure out how to feed six people on vacation. Could we go out every night? I guess. But dropping $200 a night on mediocre fish tacos at the beach isn’t an experience I’m chasing.

Working out

I guess I’ve poured more time into work this summer. It’s a lot of fun sitting down with people and getting to tell their stories.

One of our stories this month is about a local teenager who hiked Mount Kilimanjaro. She has a tattoo on the inside of her arm with the outline of a mountain range and the words, “One life. Live it.”

Solid advice can come from unexpected places. Hopefully I’ll get back to living that mantra this fall.

In the meantime, I’ll be on the back porch with an Arnold Palmer in hand, begging for cooler temperatures while thinking of something to do with my free time.

Though when you do nothing for three months, the possibilities are endless.

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Jon Show lives in Robbins Park with his wife, who he calls “The Mother of Dragons.” Their 17-year-old son is “Future Man” and their 14-year-old daughter is “The Blonde Bomber.” Their dog is actually named Lightning.