There is nothing more
disheartening than making the kids’ lunches and finding out shortly thereafter
that it’s Pizza Day. And that I thought to write an entire post on it, well it
might be an indication that I am ready for this school year to end.
READY.
In the last few weeks
I’ve had to remember no fewer than 98 extra things each morning:
- $4.00
for chrysalises and tadpoles.
- Interesting
but EDUCATIONAL show-and-share items (Not the Droid Gun Ship you got
from Gramma and Grampa)
- Reading
Log.
- Shoe
box to transform into a rock family’s habitat.
- 40
mild chicken wings for the class potluck. (You know you’re raising boys
when)
- Doing
the reading for the bloody Reading Log.
- Birthday
lollipops for the entire class.
- Birthday
pin for the birthday boy’s shirt so the class knows it's his birthday on
the weekend.
- Signed
and dated math quiz.
- Where the hell is that reading log?
- Shin
high white socks for tie dying.
- $13.00
for Naveen’s end of the year trip. (Really? $13? Not say, a nice
round number like $10 or $20?)
- $15.00
for Deaglan’s end of the year trip.
- Library
books (Every single time the late notice comes, I scratch my head thinking I
have never seen this book in this house)
And although I want to
weep around this time, each year because it is excruciatingly clear to me that
I did not end up with a career that gives me the entire summer off but my husband did, I’ll be glad when I can stop having to remember 98 extra things every
morning.
I won’t have to keep up
this charade with Naveen (let’s see, what can I put into his lunch today that
he won’t eat because, Mommmmmy, I told you, I HATE pizza
with sauce on it!)
I won’t have to ask
Deaglan WHY? WHY DID YOU WEAR YOUR INSIDE SHOES HOME? WHY????
I won’t have to
apologize for above question because I asked it in YELLING.
Instead I can sneak away
extra early to work out.
Or sleep in because NO
LUNCHES.
I can put all wardrobe
negotiations on hold. Those are pajama pants. You have to wear
regular pants.
And beat myself up a
little less on the drive to work for the YELLING.
I can expect to come
home to a house that doesn’t look like it’s been robbed and ransacked because
well, LOOKING FOR THE BLOODY READING LOG.
Instead I can come home
to three sun-kissed, shaggy haired guys wearing swim trunks and mismatched
shirts who are very glad to see me.
