My buttons
I have a very sensitive "Incompotent!" button. A tiny little feather brush will push it, and it gets stuck down on a regular basis.
Like today...a very simple task. Drop off my Monster Preschooler at school with his backpack (the one containing Valentine Cards that Mars helped him do Sunday). Then, go alone to proof my business cards. No sweat, right?
I couldn't find his backpack.
Oops, some information first...let's go back to yesterday morning.
Have I mentioned that I don't do mornings well? I wake grumpy and move slowly for a while, and I have no patience with chipper little voices so high on the scale that half the time only a dog can hear them. I have even less patience with the litany I have daily with Honey Bear. It goes like this: She looks at me with bright, happy eyes and says, "No school?" I answer, patiently and as neutrally as possible even though I know what's coming, "Yes, honey. You have school today." She says, "WAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!" Sometimes this is followed by her going immediately back to bed, from which I have to drag her. Sometimes it is followed by her plopping immediately down on the ground and kicking the floor with the back of her heels. Sometimes, however, it's followed by her face growing long ("A horse walked up to a bar..."), tears welling up, and then...just to tweak my mother-guilt....she begins to suck her tongue, a baby gesture she uses to comfort herself when she is ill, in pain or upset. I, however, am strong (Hear me roar!); I never cave in to this gesture, thus teaching her its inherent power. Instead, I make her get ready and go to school. Every day. Every...flipping...day.
So, back to yesterday morning. I was late to my exercise appointment (power walking with several ladies around the gym at church while our children ride skateboards and play basketball around our feet--much of our exercise stems from avoiding the obstacle course, soccer-dribbling the basketballs out of the way, and jumping to keep from stepping on little fingers or toes). My Monster Preschooler is in big-boy pants, but he's had a number of accidents lately, so I needed to carry some dry clothes. I couldn't find the bag I usually use. I knew it was probably in the van, but I was in a hurry and didn't want to take the time to check. So I stuffed a dry pair of pants into his backpack and went to church.
When we were done, I loaded Monster Preschooler into the van along with his Best Buddy (also 3), who spends Mondays with us. I waved good-bye to my walking partners, got into the van and started to drive away. That's when I realized I had forgotten to grab the backpack. I did not have the fortitude to unbuckle two 3-year-old boys, haul them into the church and buckle them back in, so I figured I'd stop in when I took Honeybear to dance class.
My Teenager (I think I'll call him Tenor Sensation, just for fun and because it's accurate*) took Honeybear to dance class. He was more than willing to stop by for the backpack though. So no problem.
Fast forward to this morning and my hypersentive "Incompetent!" button. I cannot find the backpack. Anywhere. I even walk precariously down ice-crusted desk steps to check the van. Nope, I don't have it.
Now what? By now, Tenor Sensation has been in school for at least an hour and a half.
I remembered that the package of Spiderman Valentines my son chose had 30 cards. There are nine children in his class. I went on a hunt for the extras. I looked where I left them, looked everywhere Mars might have left them, looked in places where no one would have left them (they were not, for instance, in the freezer, the dryer or the medicine cabinet). So I called Mars. He, of course, was not available. I left a message.
By now, my button has clearly been pushed, and Mr. Hitler (anybody remember Poison from Still Waters?) is saying sternly to me (looking down his nose across his bifocals), "Ms. Stonoff...you are incompetent! Incompetent, I say!"
I ignored him and said to myself, "Hang it all!" I called Tenor Sensation at school to ask what he'd done with Monster Preschooler's backpack. He, of course, was in class, but hearing in my voice that I was inches from going postal, the attendance clerk said she would get a message to him to call me.
It is now 8:35. If we left immediately and went straight there, we would be five minutes late to school.
I got in the car and headed toward town. Tenor Sensation called on my cell phone. From the tone in his voice, it was clear the attendance clerk had warned him of a dire emergency at home. No doubt he feared I put a bullet through his xbox. This, by the way, is not an unreasonable fear.
The backpack is still in his car, he said. It's parked at the high school. It's not locked.
So I stopped by the high school, drove through the parking lot until I found the car and got the backpack. I threw it into the van and started to drive away. Then I asked myself whether I was sure the Valentines were still inside.
Uh-oh.
I pulled over (still in the parking lot) and opened the backpack. I pulled out three or four loose Valentines. Racking my brain, I was fairly certain they were all together when I put them in though I cannot remember whether they were rubber-banded or what. Regardless, they are loose now. I pulled them out and counted them. I counted them again. There were seven Valentines in the backpack; there are nine children in his class.
Uh-oh. Double Uh-oh.
I dumped the backpack out into the van. Along with loose cheerios, pull-ups, big-boy pants, dry clothes, and toys I thought were lost, a white envelope fell out. An envelope that said, "Monster Preschooler's Valentines." An empty envelope. Yep, I was short (hey! I'm not talking about stature!).
That's when I remembered that when I cleaned up the skateboards, the basketballs and the trash the boys scattered while we walked, there were a number of Spiderman Valentines. I didn't think much of it at the time since Best Buddy likes Spiderman as much as Monster Preschooler, and he came in with Valentine Cards. I threw them away with the other trash. But I realized now that Monster Preschooler must have gotten into his backpack. I threw away Valentine Cards my preschooler was to give his classmates.
It is now 8:55, and we are officially 10 minutes late to school.
At this point, I began to breathe too fast, and to cry. I hate it when the incompetency button gets stuck down. Plus, it's a time bomb: I have a limited number of minutes to pull a SuperMom stunt before the panic attack sets in. Almost, I took Monster Preschooler home and just skipped school. But it was his Valentine Party, for heaven's sake! I couldn't take that from him.
So we stopped at Safeway (Thank God for_Safeway). I hauled my preschooler in at 9 a.m. to buy one package of cards (at least they were half off). I find the idea of Valentine Cards turning into Valentine candy offensive, but the only plain cards left were totally lame. So I bought Halloween Candy, packaged in pink and red (have I mentioned that I don't like Halloween?). Does this announce incompetency, or is it just me? Buying one package of Valentine's Day cards the day after the holiday? I mean, I could argue that I was buying ahead for next year (thus being thrifty!) but only if I also buy groceries. Perhaps I should have filled my cart.
I checked Monster Preschooler in (30 minutes late) and stood in the hall furiously addressing cards. While I was there, Mars returned my call. The extra Spiderman cards are in the secretary with all the other cards and stationery items (I looked there; honestly, I did).
Oh, well. As I was leaving, I ran into the mother who was supposed to volunteer that day. She was more than 30 minutes late, and she didn't have Valentine Day cards at all.
I ended up taking Monster Preschooler with me to proof the bz cards, but they are gorgeous. And right next door was a photography studio with a great outdoor studio, so I made an appointment to have photos made--photos that hopefully will grace the back of my book jacket. So...everything's good!
* Say, what is the noun form of apropos?
Like today...a very simple task. Drop off my Monster Preschooler at school with his backpack (the one containing Valentine Cards that Mars helped him do Sunday). Then, go alone to proof my business cards. No sweat, right?
I couldn't find his backpack.
Oops, some information first...let's go back to yesterday morning.
Have I mentioned that I don't do mornings well? I wake grumpy and move slowly for a while, and I have no patience with chipper little voices so high on the scale that half the time only a dog can hear them. I have even less patience with the litany I have daily with Honey Bear. It goes like this: She looks at me with bright, happy eyes and says, "No school?" I answer, patiently and as neutrally as possible even though I know what's coming, "Yes, honey. You have school today." She says, "WAAAAAGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!" Sometimes this is followed by her going immediately back to bed, from which I have to drag her. Sometimes it is followed by her plopping immediately down on the ground and kicking the floor with the back of her heels. Sometimes, however, it's followed by her face growing long ("A horse walked up to a bar..."), tears welling up, and then...just to tweak my mother-guilt....she begins to suck her tongue, a baby gesture she uses to comfort herself when she is ill, in pain or upset. I, however, am strong (Hear me roar!); I never cave in to this gesture, thus teaching her its inherent power. Instead, I make her get ready and go to school. Every day. Every...flipping...day.
So, back to yesterday morning. I was late to my exercise appointment (power walking with several ladies around the gym at church while our children ride skateboards and play basketball around our feet--much of our exercise stems from avoiding the obstacle course, soccer-dribbling the basketballs out of the way, and jumping to keep from stepping on little fingers or toes). My Monster Preschooler is in big-boy pants, but he's had a number of accidents lately, so I needed to carry some dry clothes. I couldn't find the bag I usually use. I knew it was probably in the van, but I was in a hurry and didn't want to take the time to check. So I stuffed a dry pair of pants into his backpack and went to church.
When we were done, I loaded Monster Preschooler into the van along with his Best Buddy (also 3), who spends Mondays with us. I waved good-bye to my walking partners, got into the van and started to drive away. That's when I realized I had forgotten to grab the backpack. I did not have the fortitude to unbuckle two 3-year-old boys, haul them into the church and buckle them back in, so I figured I'd stop in when I took Honeybear to dance class.
My Teenager (I think I'll call him Tenor Sensation, just for fun and because it's accurate*) took Honeybear to dance class. He was more than willing to stop by for the backpack though. So no problem.
Fast forward to this morning and my hypersentive "Incompetent!" button. I cannot find the backpack. Anywhere. I even walk precariously down ice-crusted desk steps to check the van. Nope, I don't have it.
Now what? By now, Tenor Sensation has been in school for at least an hour and a half.
I remembered that the package of Spiderman Valentines my son chose had 30 cards. There are nine children in his class. I went on a hunt for the extras. I looked where I left them, looked everywhere Mars might have left them, looked in places where no one would have left them (they were not, for instance, in the freezer, the dryer or the medicine cabinet). So I called Mars. He, of course, was not available. I left a message.
By now, my button has clearly been pushed, and Mr. Hitler (anybody remember Poison from Still Waters?) is saying sternly to me (looking down his nose across his bifocals), "Ms. Stonoff...you are incompetent! Incompetent, I say!"
I ignored him and said to myself, "Hang it all!" I called Tenor Sensation at school to ask what he'd done with Monster Preschooler's backpack. He, of course, was in class, but hearing in my voice that I was inches from going postal, the attendance clerk said she would get a message to him to call me.
It is now 8:35. If we left immediately and went straight there, we would be five minutes late to school.
I got in the car and headed toward town. Tenor Sensation called on my cell phone. From the tone in his voice, it was clear the attendance clerk had warned him of a dire emergency at home. No doubt he feared I put a bullet through his xbox. This, by the way, is not an unreasonable fear.
The backpack is still in his car, he said. It's parked at the high school. It's not locked.
So I stopped by the high school, drove through the parking lot until I found the car and got the backpack. I threw it into the van and started to drive away. Then I asked myself whether I was sure the Valentines were still inside.
Uh-oh.
I pulled over (still in the parking lot) and opened the backpack. I pulled out three or four loose Valentines. Racking my brain, I was fairly certain they were all together when I put them in though I cannot remember whether they were rubber-banded or what. Regardless, they are loose now. I pulled them out and counted them. I counted them again. There were seven Valentines in the backpack; there are nine children in his class.
Uh-oh. Double Uh-oh.
I dumped the backpack out into the van. Along with loose cheerios, pull-ups, big-boy pants, dry clothes, and toys I thought were lost, a white envelope fell out. An envelope that said, "Monster Preschooler's Valentines." An empty envelope. Yep, I was short (hey! I'm not talking about stature!).
That's when I remembered that when I cleaned up the skateboards, the basketballs and the trash the boys scattered while we walked, there were a number of Spiderman Valentines. I didn't think much of it at the time since Best Buddy likes Spiderman as much as Monster Preschooler, and he came in with Valentine Cards. I threw them away with the other trash. But I realized now that Monster Preschooler must have gotten into his backpack. I threw away Valentine Cards my preschooler was to give his classmates.
It is now 8:55, and we are officially 10 minutes late to school.
At this point, I began to breathe too fast, and to cry. I hate it when the incompetency button gets stuck down. Plus, it's a time bomb: I have a limited number of minutes to pull a SuperMom stunt before the panic attack sets in. Almost, I took Monster Preschooler home and just skipped school. But it was his Valentine Party, for heaven's sake! I couldn't take that from him.
So we stopped at Safeway (Thank God for_Safeway). I hauled my preschooler in at 9 a.m. to buy one package of cards (at least they were half off). I find the idea of Valentine Cards turning into Valentine candy offensive, but the only plain cards left were totally lame. So I bought Halloween Candy, packaged in pink and red (have I mentioned that I don't like Halloween?). Does this announce incompetency, or is it just me? Buying one package of Valentine's Day cards the day after the holiday? I mean, I could argue that I was buying ahead for next year (thus being thrifty!) but only if I also buy groceries. Perhaps I should have filled my cart.
I checked Monster Preschooler in (30 minutes late) and stood in the hall furiously addressing cards. While I was there, Mars returned my call. The extra Spiderman cards are in the secretary with all the other cards and stationery items (I looked there; honestly, I did).
Oh, well. As I was leaving, I ran into the mother who was supposed to volunteer that day. She was more than 30 minutes late, and she didn't have Valentine Day cards at all.
I ended up taking Monster Preschooler with me to proof the bz cards, but they are gorgeous. And right next door was a photography studio with a great outdoor studio, so I made an appointment to have photos made--photos that hopefully will grace the back of my book jacket. So...everything's good!
* Say, what is the noun form of apropos?