I wrote this last June, but didn’t post it. I put it out there today for all those mamas and daddies who go all-out, non-stop, all the the time for their babies.
At 7:30 this Sunday morning, I was still in bed. STILL IN BED. Par for the course for some, but a serious accomplishment for me, who ascribes–at least in part–to my 10 year old son That Dude’s “I’ll sleep when I die” philosophy. Make-or-break moment: do I lay here some more (as I probably so badly need to) or do I press “Play” on the day and nab some downtime later?
I really just wanted to have a reading marathon: sink my teeth into the WWII novel my 11 year old daughter Little Big Boss picked out for me for Mother’s Day, make some real progress on the Anne of Green Gables prequel I’ve been flirting with for over a month (during which time LBB has wolfed her way through approximately 10 300-page novels, not that I am bitter). Do I bag the day? Play hooky from church, chuck plans to make an afternoon run to stock up for the big 5th grade pool party I’m hosting at our neighborhood pool on Friday? NO! I can do it all. Those are the only two items on my schedule; surely there’s time to read, too! Day of leisure, here I come!!
We make it to 9 o’clock service without me screaming at anyone in the car on the way, but my peaceful energy is not completely in tact–LBB has raised the topic of end-of-the-year teacher gifts en route, and I practically have to pull over the car as dread instantly overtakes me. This is the last week of school–and LBB’s final year of elementary school–and I have been so wrapped up in 5th grade pool party planning logistics that have given no thought to teacher gifts. Like zero. My Sunday plate just got a little fuller.
During the service, That Dude tries to rattle me with his bizarro church chatter. (“Mommy, I like your elbow.” “I like how pointy it is.” “Did you know that technically we were Siamese Twins at one point because we were joined together before I was born?”) But I just nod sagely at him, put my finger to my lips once in awhile, and manage to make it to the end without laughing or putting a death grip on his shoulder.
Home by 10:15–woot, virtually the whole day still before us. We can knock out teacher gift shopping and party shopping later, and I can still read. I got this. I’m just going to whip up some crab cakes now so they’ll be ready to broil come dinner time. How long can that take?! Twenty-six ingredients and 90 minutes later, I have my answer. But they’re going to be amazing, so it’s worth it, right?
Maybe it took so long because while I was making them, LBB declared herself too tall for her bike (she’s not wrong) and that I should get a bigger bike out of the shed in the backyard for her. Alas, the shed and I are not friends. We’ve lived in this house for 9 years and I still cannot unlock that bad boy for anything. My husband (AKA Chief Shed Opener) is not around, so I tried to demur, but there’s little point in fighting LBB (on pretty much anything, ever), so I agree to give it a shot.
I spend 5 minutes trying to open the shed with the key to my parents’ condo (that was a bust, by the way). I spend 7 more minutes trying to open the shed with the actual key to the shed (also a bust). I break down and text Big Daddy for tips on how to open the $&@($&$ shed. He replies almost immediately (hooray!) with the news that it’s probably already unlocked. Say what now? Is Mr. Security actually informing me that the shed is just sitting out there undefended? That someone (other than me, clearly) could just waltz on in there and steal from under our noses the Little Tykes slide and Radio Flyer wagon that all of our children are way too big for? “Use fingertips or a pry bar.” Why, thank you! I am in.
I wrangle a cobwebby, flat-tired bike around the house to the driveway. I successfully locate a pump after several minutes of rummaging in the garage, but now it is raining and LBB is going for frozen yogurt and shopping with her neighbor friend and no longer cares a rat’s patootie about her too small bike or this dusty right-size bike with its deflated wheels.
But LBB’s joy is That Dude’s sorrow, as is often so frustratingly the case. Another crossroads moment for me: do I heed the call of my books or the cry of my son? Not much of a choice, really. So off we go, just the two of us, to tackle teacher gift shopping and eat warm cinnamon sugar pretzels for a naughty late lunch. He sees a giant inflatable Mountain Dew that’s anchored to our local Royal Farms, and calls it “the most gangsta thing he’s ever seen), and I tell him we’ll try to keep it that way. It’s still only 1 pm when we get home, so I’ll just do a few more things before I read so that they’re out of the way. I make their school lunches for tomorrow and cut up a quart of strawberries and a pineapple and move the laundry along and gather the trash for Monday trash day. That Dude helps me shuck corn for dinner and entices me to play some Mario Kart (which I am so bad at that I kind of wonder whether my real-life driver’s license is legit).
LBB makes it home eventually–on a cloud from her outing–and I turn to drafting and printing the photo cards that are part of their teacher gifts. At the same time I’m text coordinating with my neighbor friend who’s kindly online party shopping for me with her Sam’s Club membership. And then it’s time to get dinner together and serve and eat and clean up. But I am in jammies by 7:30 and come out front to sit in the evening breeze and READ!
But instead, I write this.
Brownie Stew 