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Some people call it the summertime blues. Others call it the summer doldrums. I call it the Mothers-Whose-Kids-Go-to-Camp-and-the-Dogs-Who-Love-Them syndrome.

It happens every June.

Just after the school year ends with a crush of concerts, performances, farewell parties, cookies (homemade), teacher gifts (hand-picked) and year-end luncheons (potluck), it's time to get ready for camp.

Two children, two lists: flashlights, insect repellent, 10 pairs of shorts, 6 pairs of jeans, waterproof PABA-free sunscreen for sensitive skin, dental floss, prunes (another sign that I've become my mother), 10 dice, three pictures of the family dog, 28 AA batteries, six C batteries, one 9-volt battery, hiking shoes, riding boots, waterproof sandals, tennis and play shoes — each labeled.

I did all those Jewish-mother things: hid a supply of illegal candy in their suitcases, mailed letters three days before they left and packed the unused self-addressed, stamped envelopes from last year.

Now it's Monday morning. I can relax. My husband is at work. The kids are at camp. My morning chores are done.

And it's only 8:45. Before me lie four weeks of bliss. Four weeks of no kids, no carpools, no schedules, no nagging. Four weeks of freedom — time to see movies before they come out on video, read books, drink lattes, resume a social life and start weight training.

Time to clean my closet, organize 13 years of photos, update the recipe file and balance the long-overdue checking account.

This is unbelievable. This is wonderful. This is hell.

It's 8:53. Four weeks to go and I can't even figure out what to do for the rest of the morning, not to mention the rest of the day.

For starters, I head back to the coffee pot.

The dog looks perplexed.

"Well, Bruno," I say. "It's just you and me for the next few weeks."

Bruno sighs, looks at me indifferently, goes upstairs and sprawls across my daughter Morgan's bed.

The house is deafeningly tranquil. It echoes with the sound of no bouncing balls, no slamming doors, no unexplained thuds, no dueling boomboxes.

It's 9:04. I call time to make sure my kitchen clock is working.

The problem is motherhood itself. Motherhood just isn't fair. To do it right, everything else — career, marriage, photo albums, even your waistline — takes a backseat.

Days are consumed by children's appointments, lessons, practices and rehearsals. Evenings are devoted to homework. Phone conversations are with people you don't want to talk to, making arrangements to drive to places you don't want to go to. Weekends are dominated by sports.

Your car becomes a crumb-filled taxi, and you're the driver, cook and cleaner. Your social life is an extension of your kid's lives.

Long ago, you used to have a life of your own. It included facials, lunches in the city, long baths, bestsellers, new restaurants, even a real job. You got up early and came home late. You wore nylons, silk and tweed. You carried a briefcase, spoke in full sentences, had a secretary and got a paycheck. You had friends.

Then you had kids. And they had lives and all of a sudden you didn't.

Then, the final insult: If you do your job well, your kids can't wait to leave home. And you're out of work and it's just you and the dog.

The phone rings. "Is Sam there?"

"Sorry, Brad. He's at college, I mean camp."

It's 9:42. Where does the time go?

Mercifully, the minutes finally pull together into hours, which eventually turn into a day. I manage to read the morning paper, cook dinner (at 11:45 a.m.), and only kill one plant by overwatering.

The second day is easier. By the end of the first week, I have seen one movie, met two friends for dinner, taken the dog to the beach and organized my rubber stamps. My husband and I find we have things to talk about and even enjoy a romantic interlude or two.

My life takes on a new rhythm, unencumbered by my children's schedules.

Four weeks finally ends. I never did get to the gym, the closet or boxes of photos. But I drank 27 lattes, threw out my old nail polish and opened a new checking account rather than tackle the old one.

Bruno didn't fare quite as well.

After a couple of days, he stopped trailing me from room to room, and simply slept on Morgan's bed. His lethargy was frightening. When he stopped dropping tennis balls at my feet and waiting for me to throw them, I rushed him to the vet.

"Separation anxiety," the doctor told me. "He's depressed."

Finally the children came home.

Bruno revived. The house is alive with blaring boomboxes, ringing phones, quarreling voices and bouncing balls. Floors and counters are covered with dirty dishes, piles of laundry, candy wrappers and sand. The oh-so-familiar odor of sweaty socks permeates the air.

I suggest going for a walk. Morgan and Bruno give me a "Get a life, Mom" look.

I had a life. It may have only lasted four weeks, but it wasn't so bad.

I survey the room, calculating the work ahead and head for the phone.

"Do you have time for a latte?" I ask a friend with whom I renewed contact during the past month. "I gotta get out of here. The kids are really getting on my nerves."