Today was the usual: grab the stack of newspapers from the porch, the wagon from the garage, and a pair of drink boxes and cookies. Then I run out to the elementary school to pick up the boys from the bus stop. This a good break for me. I fold the papers and listen to Nick and Sam tell me about their respective days at school. It’s little island of quality time in a hectic sea of work-related and parent stress.
Nick is first in the car and I ask him how his day went. “Terrible,” he says.
I immediately suspect the worst, but I try to see if I can put it in perspective for him. “Was it a terrible day the whole day long, or just in the morning? Or maybe just before you left?”
“The whole day.”
“What happened?”
“Some kid knocked me over.”
“On the playground?” He nods.
I think about how some people’s kids shouldn’t be allowed out on a leash. “What did you do?”
“Told the aide.”
Relieved that he didn't haul off and punch somebody, I praise his levelheaded response. “What else happened?”
“I had to stay in for study class.”
Dreading the advent of another behavior report, I ask, “How come?”
“We were writing something in class and I didn't finish it.”
My heart plummets. “Oh, no, Nick, you're kidding.”
At this point Nick, carefully noting my reaction to this recital of the day’s events, can’t contain himself any longer. He starts laughing uproariously, holding his belly and rocking in his seat, shouting, “Pulled your leg! Pulled your leg! Hahahahahahaha! You fall for it every time! Hahahahahaha.”
“I hate you, Nick,” I say between gritted teeth.
Now Sam announces that he's got his finger stuck in the bolt hole for the trailer hitch, which has been rolling around on the floor of my car since spring. It weighs about ten pounds, and he's starting to panic because he can't free his now swollen and painful finger.
I sigh a long-suffering sigh and tell him to come with me. We leave Nick in the car and walk into the school in search of a soap dispenser. Everyone we meet along the way smiles a greeting. Nobody notices that my son is attached to a trailer hitch even though Sam is doing his best to bring the problem to everyone's attention by saying, “It’s not my fault” and “It was an accident.”
I locate a classroom with a sink and dribble soap on Sam's finger. Then a little twist and voila! He's free. He smiles a relieved smile, and I begin to see how I can use this incident to get even with Nick. “Put your finger back in the hole and follow me,” I tell him.
We get back to the car, Sam looking convincingly morose and me more grim than usual. Nick asks, “What's going on?” and I tell him we have to take Sam to the hardware store so we can buy a hacksaw to cut off his hand. “What?”
“Yeah, the soap didn't work.”
“You're kidding, right? Are you really going to cut his hand off?” He's a little apprehensive but more clearly fascinated by the idea, which is right where I want him.
“Hahahahahaha! Got you! Hahahahaha! You should've seen the look on your face! Hahahahahaha!”
“Aarrrgghh!”
I love quality time.
Marie Marfia is a sometime-blogger, all-the-time-worrier, work-at-home-graphic-designer living in Jacksonville--Florida's first coast. She writes about her family because they're the ones she cares about most. Her website is http://www.dancingmac.com.