Clinging to the Ceiling by My Fingernails

My day started out like most weekdays, up before roosters even think about testing out their cockadoodledoos, off and running. I had every intention for a smooth running day, plan in place, things to get done, tick, tick, tick. And you know about intentions.

First, Sammy nicely showed me that the zipper was broken on his jacket, irksome because 1) he’d broken it the day before and neglected to tell me, and 2) this is the 2^nd time he’d broken it and it’s a pain to fix, which would require a trip to the fabric store for parts (expensive parts at that, with lots of extras – why can’t I just buy the 1 little doohickey; I don’t need 7). We trotted off to school, ever so slightly late, but we made it. We let Sammy head on in, parked the stroller, and made our way in as well in order to attend Sammy’s class writing celebration in the library. Don’t ask; I have no idea what it was supposed to be, either, other than a half an hour to tell Sabrina No Don’t Touch That 4 million times and by the way Shhh! With other multi-parent functions, they usually just let us go straight in, but I got turned back to the office to sign In with security, which is no big deal, except that the school official (I have no idea if she’s a teacher, and if she is, I hope Sammy’s never in her class) was so snippy and condescending, as if I was trying to pull a fast one (let’s see how many library books I can sneak out under my coat) or completely stupid. Anyway, in the end, each kid, or at least the ones not paralyzed by fear, got up to read the story he had written, consisting of 2 sentences. What do you expect from 6 year olds? Shakespeare is for 2^nd graders.

Or so some of the parents might actually speak. Following the little shindig, I got my first real taste of parent obnoxiousness, as I watched a handful of them corner the vice principal to complain about the fair and balanced treatment of the various winter holidays in the class. Please. I know everything is getting equal time because Sammy came home singing the dreidel song, with a picture of a snowman, and various colorings of Asian holiday decorations, and that was just Monday. You could just tell by the way they stood they were just looking to pick a fight with someone, anyone, at the school, for some reason. Clearly, they have some time on their hands that I do not.

The 2 minute walk back home was uneventful, but that quickly changes when I turned into the driveway to see a police officer standing there and my back door wide open. Hello, Heart Attack. He told me our alarm had triggered, and that he’d called for backup so they could check out the inside. After 40 years (or maybe a couple of minutes, who knows), the other officer showed up, they went through the house, and came out to tell me everything was OK. They were very kind to an ashen-faced crazy lady and her far too cute daughter, and it was only after I went inside and confirmed the situation that I realized the cops had seen my unmade bed, laundry all over the kitchen, and a basic disaster area throughout the house. How they could determine it wasn’t ransacked is beyond me.

Since drinking at 9 AM is unseemly, Sabrina and I headed out on our errands, primarily to acquire a gift for Sammy’s class exchange. Oh yea, a flyer came home proclaiming that, in order to teach the children about the giving of the season, please send a wrapped children’s book suitable for a boy or a girl no more expensive than $5 OKhaveaniceday. No problem, right? Sure. After listening to Mr. Picky and his minions dress down the vice principal, I was suddenly overcome by anxiety over what message the chosen volume would be sending. I combed through the stacks for an hour, worrying about skewing the gender too far one way, getting the reading level all wrong, or somehow selecting the one book sure to offend every other parent. I think I finally grabbed something that had a Caldecott award stamp on the front of it and flew out of there. And in the moment I wasn’t peering at book spines, I was chasing my daughter back and forth, trying to keep her from tearing popup books and completely upending their organization (I failed across the board). I paid as quickly as I could, but she still managed to push open the heavy door and run smack out into traffic. I screamed so loud people on the sidewalk started to run, as if to catch her in case I didn’t make it in time. Hello, Heart Attack #2. Please note, Sabrina has been duly taught the rule of holding hands in the parking lot and will probably never forget the sight of her screeching wombat of a mother flying across the road toward her.

We finished up at lightning speed after that. Then came home, lunch, and blessed naptime, during which I’d planning the oh so glamorous task of cleaning the kitchen. Do you just want to be me? I was getting started when the phone rang. Parents of school and daycare kids know the chill that runs through your blood when you hear, “Hi, this is your son’s teacher,” especially in the middle of the school day. Hello, Heart Attack #3. But. BUT. This is where the tide turned. Her call was actually to tell me that Sammy was having a terrific day and ask if Sammy could bring the class elf home for the weekend. She had read the kids The Elf on the Shelf, but had neglected to foresee their reaction to what would happen to the poor little guy on the weekends when school was closed. So she quickly devised a plan to have a class reprehensive host the Santa’s minion for a couple of days.

I just so happened to buy a copy of the book earlier today. Kismet.

And just like that, things got a little better. Sammy came home, brimming with pride at getting 3 stickers in his folder (the highest possible, thankyouverymuch), and I didn’t have to cook because my folks invited us over for dinner (so they could use my husband as indentured servant to schlep Christmas decorations from the attic, but that’s semantics when you’re talking free food). I’m still completely wired from my 3 heart attacks (Larry, Moe, and Curly? Manny, Mo, and Jack?), as noted by the fact that it’s nearly midnight at I type this. But that means this day is almost over and I can look forward to the heart attacks a new day will bring. Somebody have a bottle of wine on standby, please.