Today is the day every child has circled in red on their mental calendar since September: the Last Day of School. It’s also the day every parent greets with a mixture of dread and existential panic. Not because we don’t want to spend time with our delightful offspring (I mean, we love them, right?), but because the thought of keeping them entertained for the next 100 days is the parenting equivalent of running an ultra-marathon with a backpack full of snacks and a hydration pack filled with cold coffee.

Summer vacation, you see, is not for the faint of heart. It requires the strategic planning of a NASA launch, the logistical coordination of a Disney World vacation, and the snack budget of a minor league baseball team. If you haven’t spent March, April, and most of May quietly panicking about camp sign-ups and wondering if you can buy Goldfish crackers in bulk, you’re simply not doing it right.

Let’s talk numbers. The average child will ask for a snack approximately every 47 minutes during the summer months. Multiply that by three children, factor in the “snack inflation” effect (where a snack is never quite enough), and you’ll find yourself at Costco, staring at a pallet of granola bars, wondering if you should just buy two. Camps are another story: they’re expensive, fill up faster than a Taylor Swift concert, and getting both my 9-year-old and 7-year-old into the same camp, at the same time, is a feat of scheduling wizardry that would make even Len Testa proud.

Now, here’s the real twist: I work all summer. My husband, a teacher, gets to stay home with the kids. This means I can plan every minute of their day with color-coded charts, Pinterest-worthy snack carts (parental approval required, because my middle child would subsist on nothing but snacks if left unchecked), and lists of wholesome activities. But, much like planning a perfect marathon route, I have absolutely no control over whether anyone actually follows the plan. I am the race director who sets up the course, only to watch the runners veer off in search of ice cream.

As a kid, I was never a fan of summer. I liked the reliable routine of school, the thrill of learning, and the predictability of lunch at 11:57 a.m. Summer meant my mom would lock us out of the house until lunchtime, and my dad would sign me up for every volleyball camp in the continental United States. I loved volleyball, but as the perennial “new kid,” making friends was about as easy as running a 5K in flip-flops.

My kids, on the other hand, are thrilled. They’re not yet at the age where sleeping until noon is a competitive sport, but TV, video games, water balloons, and swimming are all firmly on the agenda. Meanwhile, I’ll be working, shuttling to baseball every night, and dodging the daily messes that seem to multiply like rabbits in the summer heat.

And honestly? That’s just fine by me. Because if running has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t have to enjoy every mile—sometimes, you just have to keep moving forward, one snack break at a time.