Getting Out of Bed Was My First Mistake

Monday did not go well.

Joe had to take the day off work so we could complete our home refinance. Signing legal papers for 45 minutes straight is never a good way to kick off your morning.  While we were happy about our sexy new interest rate, we were in a Monday mood.

On the way home, I started deleting a month's worth of unheard cell phone voicemails.  For those who do not know me well, I probably should fill you in: I am a bad cell phone user. I use it only to place calls and I never ever check it for messages or texts. My husband doesn't bother trying to reach me on my cell as it's usually buried in my purse or under the minivan center console for weeks on end.

Anyway, my callers included:

• The mom who hosted last Sunday's bowling birthday party.  She wanted to know Daniel's size for bowling shoes.  Ooops.
• My sister's best friend.  She called with questions about our family funeral and asked if I wouldn't mind picking up the memorial posterboards she put together on my way to the wake.  Double oops.
• Several moms asking if they could pick up my children for assorted playdates at THEIR houses.  F*CK. 

My agitation, though wholly self-induced, was growing.  I then faced stacks of new project outlines and field trip forms as the boys arrived home from their schools.  Dan's class is planning a trip to see the Nutcracker.  I have never ever volunteered to take other people's children on field trips.  It stems back to all my years as a Girl Scout camp counselor where I had keep track of dozens of pre-teen girls who refused to stay together because they all hated each other.  Go ahead and ask me again why I'm happy to have sons.   

Anyway, Daniel was pushing the field trip thing really hard for some reason.  Our conversation:

Me:  You don't really want me to chaperone this, do you?  You know how mean I am.  I'm going to end up yelling at you and your friends if somebody doesn't say 'please' or 'thank you.'  You'll be embarrassed.  Everyone will know your mom is crazy.  

Daniel:  No.  I want you to go.

Me:  Why?

Daniel:  Because you're my mom.

Nothing like using the old "you're my mom" thing to get me to fork over an extra $9 for a chaperone ticket (on top of Daniel's $9 ticket).  Sheesh.  He couldn't have pushed for this during one of the $3 field trips?  But I'm all signed up.  I'm still hoping that his teacher remembers me from parent-teacher conferences and understands that I'm probably not her best choice.  I jokingly asked her to remind me which kid was mine.  She didn't seem amused.  

In addition to the field trip, I found the due date for Daniel's writing project.  I ran out to Kinko's to have his book bound together (per page 52 of the project requirement guide) at a cost of  $5.49.  The kid was costing me a small fortune this week.  Thank God for our refinance.

I flipped through his writing project in the Kinko's parking lot at 9pm (just like Oprah told us not to do so we don't get stabbed or murdered) and thoroughly enjoyed Daniel's tale of unruly chess pieces battling for control of his room.  On the very last page, Danny's ultimate trump card is revealed:

That's my boy.  Nothing like using a garage sale to remove one's troubles and earn some extra bucks for field trips and Kinko's binding services. 

I won't bore you with the rest of my bad day (which included our quarterly husband-wife argument about the importance of tone), but I did go to my happy place this evening.  Lest you've forgotten, my happy place is rooted firmly in the magic of Christmas. 

Look at the rabbits, George.  Just keep looking at the rabbits.