The End-of-School Water Ambush

It’s the last day of school! Wahooo!

And with it comes a bit of sadness, because my end-of-school-year water ambush tradition has come to an end. And this is one tradition I’m so sad to give up.

It all started years ago when my neighbor asked if we wanted to join them for a last-day-of-school water fight. Nothing fancy—just some water balloons and a few dollar-store water guns. We hid in the bushes, fully loaded, and waited for the elementary school bus to rumble down the street. The moment it pulled away, we sprang from our hiding spots, soaking the unsuspecting kids as they sprinted for cover.

It quickly became a thing.

Year after year, we’d pretend we wouldn’t be waiting for them, but we always were—ready to soak them and celebrate summer.

Of course, after two years, the kids caught on. Every year, they’d try to outsmart us. They’d debate wearing swimsuits to school, as if that would protect them. One year, my youngest even fashioned a homemade shield out of cardboard and packing tape. It wasn’t exactly waterproof, but points for creativity.

The best year, though, was our masterpiece: The Garage Ambush. By then, we had middle schoolers and high schoolers involved, along with reinforcements in the form of my sister, my nephew, our neighbor, and his daughter. We locked every door to the house, forcing the kids to circle the perimeter, confused and increasingly frustrated.

We could hear them outside, their little voices whispering, “Did they forget about us? No way they forgot!”

Finally, they approached the garage, unsuspecting, and opened the door. The looks on their faces when they realized their mistake were priceless. We emerged from the shadows like a soggy SWAT team, water guns blazing, balloons flying. They never stood a chance.

The aftermath was always the same: a yard littered with popped balloons, kids dripping wet and laughing, and me pretending to be mad about how I always became the target. We’d celebrate the carnage with homemade cookies, everyone too tired to argue about who “won” (spoiler: it’s always the adults).

But now my youngest is in middle school, and the elementary school bus doesn’t stop at our house anymore. This year, we’ll have to head to my sister’s house to ambush my nephews instead. It’s bittersweet, thinking about the end of this tradition.

Still, I’m not ready to let it go entirely. My kids may think they’re safe now, but someday, when they come home from college, I’ll be waiting. Maybe not in the garage, but somewhere. And when they least expect it, I’ll hit them with a full blast from my water gun.

Traditions, after all, are forever.