Funny that I was pondering how to put to words this post, my pal
Fad posted that she too tendered her resignation this morning.
Last night the conversations went from bad to "what the?" - and not with the usual suspect. This time it was the nearly 11 year old.
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Set the stage:
Band sign up was last night. At 8 o-idontthinkso-clock. I became privvy of the time when at 5:15 I received the note that she brought home from her teacher telling me that your assigned time is September 16 at 8. Um ok, thanks for the notice, and um, nope, not coming at 8. I have very solid, very good, no excuses just the facts ma'am reasons.
1. Big Brother Finale
1b. Biggest Loser
2. Bed time for babe's
Do these teachers not understand bed times? Do they not know what a nightly routine is? Do they not understand the prime time lineup (which BTW, NBC, please read the TV Guide before you schedule a 2 hour Biggest Loser during my Big Brother. Not a good move NBC, not a good move!)?
I know, it sounds like I put TV before my child, but really I did not. I instead marched my double wide booty and my nearly 11 year old into the band room and demanded brazenly that my case be heard sat quietly in the corner and listened to the rules, and then herded like the other cattle into the gymnasium to purchase/rent the instrument my darling, loves me more than her own life, daughter says makes the most amazingly beautiful sound of all the woodwind instruments - the Oboe.
As we wait, and wait, and wait (which I discovered while waiting, nearly half of those in attendance didn't get the notice that they had an assigned time, and came when it started because they, like me, had "other things to do" between 7 and 9 last night - uh huh, we parents all get the Prime Time schedule. We all read TV Guide. We know where its at!) and finally get up to the table to make our rental/purchase, I find out that the music company DOES NOT RENT OBOE's! Oh no, they don't rent them! Do you know why? Because that lovely piece of musical dreaminess costs.too.much.to.rent!
Who'da thunk that the most obnoxiously sounding instrument is the most expensive instrument to purchase. To the tune of $3,265 (I think the one he was trying to see me one made of gold - funny that it is made of wood...).
THUD!
(brief pause to administer smelling salts)
Ok, I am back (you do realize this is only setting the stage for the incident that caused my mommy demise right? Ok good!).
So I sit down in the chairs to recover talk to my darling, loves me more than her own life, daughter to explain the annnual mom's cost of living increase I didn't get this year, the dance lessons I just paid for, and the birds and the bee's (ok not them, but I needed more effect), and ask one last time "are you sure you want to play the Oboe?". Yes mom in that sweet little tone only an almost 11 year old can exume was her response.
So back to the line we go. And we wait, and wait and wait (because now the 6:30 crowd has arrived). Finally our turn, and Mr. Music Man says to me, "I forgot to ask you if Mr. S told you the school owns an Oboe that you can rent".
THUD!
(brief pause to administer more smelling salts)
With a bright and beaming smile I say, "no, you did not ask me that the last time I stood here in this Godforsakenlineforeternity we spoke, I will go talk to him". And without pause, I exited my spot in line - I bet you can guess not for the last time this night - and returned to the band room which has now flooded with the 7:00 crowd, to wait in another line to talk to Mr. S about this illustrious Oboe he forgot to tell me he had for rent with my daughters name already assigned to it!
So we get through that pleasant converstation, and as we walk out of the band room with less of a load out of my pocket - I will take the $30 a year rent over the $3,265 purchase price any day - only to hear - "Oh, Mrs. N, did you happen to purchase her Theory and Music Books and Music Stand from Mr. Music Man yet?"
THUD!
(brief pause so I can regain my composure - forget the &*^$#@ smelling salts)
Yep, back into that line. The one that now occupies the remnants of the 6:30 crowd, intermingled with the now entering 7:00 crowd.
Finally, back to stare Mr. Music Man in the eye. You see, the poor man kept getting stuck with me. Not because of bad luck, no no, it was kharma man, all kharma. Don't do the job right the first time, well then, try and try again!
Books and stand in hand, worn out soles from walking back and forth, and a smile now permanently frozen in a stage of fakeness on my face, almost an hour and 40 minutes later, we are walking out of the school (so much for that half hour it was supposed to take).
Before I return to the actual story, in that first 5 or so minutes we were in the band room, Mr. S told us that the kids wouldn't actually start to play - or even take home - their instruments until October 6th.
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Back to the regularly scheduled program:
Ok, so we get home from the aforementioned party and there are a few things still on the list of chores for the nearly 11 year old. Just a few. Things that would take less than 10 minutes total if she put her mind to it (I hated that phrase when I was her age, but I am the mom now, so I kinda like it).
But she had her own agenda.
Her agenda included setting up her music stand, her music books, and finding the perfect chair to sit upon while practicing her pretend air-Oboe.
And those other things (which included letting the dog whose bladder is now near exploding out) were forgotten.
And then she went to bed.
And those other things (which still included letting the dog whose bladder is now near exploding out) were forgotten.
But not before she hand delivered a pleasant little note to my lap and stomping back into her room.
I believe the words: "I can't take it anymore... I have been waiting three years to tell you this... I am a big girl now" actually spilled out of her pen and onto the paper.
I knew it was a cry for attention, but before acknowledging it, a small and silent bwahahaha snuck out. And then the man of the house read it. And a very large belly roll snuck out of him.
So on played the 9:00 revelle - in perfect pitch and tone, on my pretend air-trumpet.
And from around the corner came the darling nearly 11 year old. Mad as the devil on a cold MN winter day!
Why was she mad you ask? What was the letter about? It was because we are always yelling repeating ourselves in sometimes raised voices that she didn't do this, or she needs to do that, or did you get your homework done? What do you mean you have no homework? Did you let the dog out? Did you feed the cats? Do you have to wear that again?
You know, the usual suspects of parent retoric.
So we sat, and we talked. We worked it all out she and I. We are women, we roll that way. A little catty, then all love for mankind.
Until the evil ogre step father re-entered the room. And a new list of "did you do this? you had better do that! and don't think I didn't see you do what you thought I didn't see you do!" Because you know, he was helping right? Um, yeah, not so much....
So now that game starts all over. And now she adds to her "your a bad mom list", the fact that I let the evil ogre step father pick on her so much. Which I don't. But I try to keep that battle for after she leaves the room. So she stomps off, and he walks away, and now my peaceful Prime Time evening is ruined because I have pieces to pick up and battles to wage. And its only 9:30...
By the end of the night, I had posted my resignation as mother and goddess of all things beautiful and shiny in our home on the refrigerator for all to see. And then an equally as lovely resignation was posted on my now a slumber evil ogre adoring husbands forehead.
And out the door went my peaceful plan of staying home all.alone.this.weekend. Because this morning darling nearly 11 year old daughter informed me that she had no intentions of camping with the evil ogre step father and the perfect little brother this weekend.
Sigh. That means I also get doggy duty this weekend (hehehe I said doody). I wonder if he will be able to read "I quit" if I put a slice of peanut butter coated bacon on the note?
Summer 1984 - you will find I am willing to post embarrassing pictures of myself when it comes to the memory of my mother. The shroud of vanity is lifted in her honor.
