Sometimes, I think that our kids’ schools devise tasks with the sole intent of making my life harder. In my more sardonic moments, I like to imagine the planning meeting responsible for these unrelenting trials.
Executive: <in a deep, rich-person timbre> “Give me an update. How goes our devious plan to totally overwhelm all the parents?”
Underling: <in a nasal, sycophantic snivel> “Oh, sir, it’s really going well. For one, parents have to rise before the sun to have *any* hope of getting their kids to school on time! Not to mention, they always need to pack a snack, a lunch, and a water bottle — and I simply cannot overstate how easy it is to forget one (or more!) of those tasks. Plus, there’s homework due *each day*, so that’s a small form of torture. But, the best part is that all of those are just the day-to-day stuff!”
Executive: “There’s more? Do tell.”
Underling: “Well, we also ask the parents to volunteer in the classrooms — you know, *during* the school day.”
Executive: “During the school day? But don’t most of the parents have jobs? And the ones who don’t — they principally stay home with younger kids, correct?”
Underling: <chuckles> “Exactly, sir. It’s a no-win situation for them.”
Executive: <nods> “Yes, I see now. Very clever. What else?”
Underling: “Well, we also stage elaborate — but short-lived — parties for every holiday.”
Executive: “For every holiday? What about Christmas and Easter?”
Underling: “Oh, no, not those — we call Christmas a ‘winter holiday’, and we just skip Easter altogether. But we celebrate all the others.”
Executive: “Hmm, I see. And what exactly do these celebrations entail?”
Underling: “Starting in kindergarten, we routinely send out sign-up lists so that *every* parent feels compelled to contribute money and time to each party — none of which lasts longer than an hour! Think of how demoralizing it is to buy a twenty-dollar Valentine’s Day banner, only to have it used for barely sixty minutes!”
Executive: “Yes, that *does* sound demoralizing. Is that all?”
Underling: <laughs cruelly> “No sir, I left the best for last… on top of all of that, we stage… unpredictably scheduled dress-up days!”
Executive: <faints dead away from the undiluted malice of such a pronouncement>
Now, I ask you to look past my previous hyperbole when I tell you that this last offense is undoubtedly the worst of the bunch.
Sure, the monotonous, everyday stuff is tiresome — but it’s also predictable. So, too, are the holiday parties. (After all, Valentine’s Day lands on February 14th, every year. And, even when the party doesn’t fall *on* the exact holiday date, it always falls *near* it.)
Additionally, after Rhys demolished — on separate occasions — both Aza’s and Bo’s classrooms, I no longer get asked to volunteer. A hidden perk of stay-at-home-mommery, I suppose.
Alas, this still leaves dress-up days: neither predictable nor avoidable.
Admittedly, a few of these days conveniently align with holidays: Halloween and Valentine’s Day, for example. The vast majority of them, though, are scheduled completely at random. There’s no standard holidays associated with dressing as one’s favorite book character, or as a one-hundred-year-old, or as a child whose parents don’t bother to right-side-out their child’s inside-out clothes.
Instead, we caretakers must take special note of each scheduled dress-up day, then dress up our child… on that day. There is no wiggle room, nor is there a do-over.
Oh, and if you miss that one, specific day? Bless your heart. Your child will remind you — for months afterward! — about the time that you sent her to school in regular clothes… when *every other child* was dressed in pajamas.
Oof.
Thus, I have determined that dress-up days are just a well-calibrated trap for distracted parents. Blink once, and you’ll fall in. And yet, there is no other choice but to walk the tightrope of preschool and elementary responsibilities.
(After all, you wouldn’t want your kid to be the only one not wearing pajamas.)
Undoubtedly, the most perilous of these traps occurs when more than one dress-up event falls on the *same day*. We recently endured this sort of perfect storm — when Aza had “Western Day” at the same time that Bo was celebrating… “The Wedding of Q and U”.
Not sure how to dress for that? Don’t worry — the school had sent home a “save the date” the previous month. In addition to providing all the fixings for a low-budget wedding, we parents were also instructed to dress our daughters as “queens” and our sons as… “quarterbacks”.
This was not an easy ask for us. We have plenty of clothes for dressing as a queen; we have virtually *no* clothes for dressing as a quarterback. It’s a comical understatement to say that we’re not really a sports family.
I harbored aspirations of putting together really elaborate costumes — for both of these events. In another life, I might have succeeded; in *this* life, however, my plans were usurped by, well, reality.
In the days leading up to the dual-dress-up-day ordeal, Taylor and I were out-of-town for a last-minute, inflexible appointment. (It’s a long story.) We returned Wednesday afternoon, leaving us with virtually no time to prepare for Thursday morning dress-up.
Thus, I was forced to abandon my plans to either: 1) sew appropriate costumes, à la The Legend of Halloween Costume-Making; 2) ask to borrow clothing from one of the Mines football players at our church and from our homestead-ish family friends; 3) visit Goodwill in the vain hope of finding relevant items; or 4) cave to the pressure and buy costumes online.
[Note: Yes, obviously, had I planned ahead, our last-minute trip would not have resulted in this conundrum. However, I think it’s clear that “planning ahead” is a skill that no longer comes naturally to me.]
Aza’s costume, at least, could easily be faked. I grabbed her full-length denim dress and paired it with a long-sleeved shirt and leggings. Twin French braids would round out the look — or, at minimum, make it clear that we hadn’t entirely forgotten Thursday’s theme.
Bo’s outfit, on the other hand… would take a bit more work.
I ransacked our costume bin — although I already knew that I wouldn’t find anything. Moving on to the spare fabric bin, I discovered a friend’s old soccer jersey, which I promptly asked Bo to try on.
Alas, the shirt came to my son’s ankles — and, even tucked in, it remained distinctly un-football-ish.
However, the jersey gave me an idea. We’ve long planned to get Bo involved in baseball — although, to date, it remains an unrealized goal.
[Author’s Note: As of this writing, we’ve finally enrolled him in a summer camp that includes a brief introduction to baseball, among other sports.]
Even so, I had acquired baseball pants for Bo at some point in the distant past. I fished them out of his nearly empty “Size 5” bin. (Since, you know, most of the other clothes were already in his closet. These poor baseball pants had never even moved upstairs.) The clothing item didn’t telegraph “football” — but at least it said “sports”. I decided to take the partial win.
Now for the shirt. Something jogged my memory, and I moved over to the still-full “Size 6” bin. [Note: The contents of that bin have since moved upstairs and into Bo’s closet.] I had purchased an Under Armour shirt during a recent trip to Goodwill — and at this point, it seemed as decent a choice as any. (Since, you know, no truly “good” options remained.)
I brought the two pieces of clothing upstairs, paired them with long socks, and planned to add “eye black” the following morning.
Of course, the best-laid plans of mice and moms go often awry.
All our kids slept in the next morning — which meant that *Taylor and I* slept in, too. Alas, relying on our children to rouse us works 99% of the time — but the remaining 1% is guaranteed to fall on the worst possible days.
Thus, by the time Rhys’s cries roused me from bed, we were already twenty minutes behind schedule.
“Taylor!” I barked. “Come on — we gotta get going!”
Taylor: <grunts in tormented sleepiness>
“Tayyyyylorrrr!”
“Mmmmm… I’m coming….”
I brought Rhys to pee, warmed up his milk, and plopped him onto the couch. “Ok, I gotta go wake up your brother,” I groaned.
“Bobhi!” Rhys enthused. “Bo wake up!”
“Hopefully,” I answered.
Bo, however, did not wake up — despite my gently rubbing his back. Instead, in an uncanny imitation of his father, he grunted sleepily and swatted impotently at my hand.
“Ughhhhh,” I complained. “Ok, I’ll go wake up Aza first.”
Aza, of course, proved equally difficult to rouse.
“I didn’t see you come into my room,” she mumbled.
“That’s because your eyes are still closed,” I pointed out.
“Oh yeah,” she sighed dreamily. “That’s why I can’t see you.”
I recalled my friend Markel’s assessment of Aza. I think she’s Luna Lovegood, he had mused — and, somewhat unfortunately, his appraisal was extremely apt.
This is going nowhere, I realized. Turning from my daughter’s bed, I once again bellowed, “TAYLOR!”
“I’m up!” came the grumpy reply.
“Can you get Bo?”
“I can get Bo….”
I groaned. “Will you get Bo!?”
<loud sigh> “Yes.”
Turning back to my daughter, I pleaded, “Come on, baby girl. We gotta get you up. It’s Western Day!”
This, finally, jolted her awake.
“Oh, and you will give me braids!” she exclaimed.
[Note: For the record, braids are always on offer. *I’m* not the one who insists that her hair remain perpetually undone.]
“Yes, braids,” I muttered. “But first we gotta do breakfast.”
By this point, Bo had oozed out of his bedroom and into the living room.
“I’m hungry,” he complained. “Can I have Honey Nut Cheerios with honey on top of them?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, but you’re also getting pumpkin seeds for a bit of protein.”
“Ugh, fine.”
I turned to Aza. “What do you want?”
“A cream cheese and cheese sandwich.”
“Yeah, sure.” <pause> “Wait — a cream cheese and cheese sandwich?”
“Yes.”
“Ok, fine. Rhysi, you’re getting the other half of Aza’s weird sandwich.”
“Sandwich!” he acknowledged.
I scurried into the kitchen, where Taylor methodically prepared our morning beverages.
“Remember, today’s the day the carpool comes here,” he reminded me.
“Oh, shoot — that’s right.” I glanced at the clock. “We’ve still got time.”
Taylor cocked an eyebrow. “The kids are in their jammies. And haven’t eaten. And Aza’s lunch isn’t packed.”
Gesturing at the bag of loose leaf Earl Grey, I quipped, “Then perhaps you ought to scoop my tea faster!”
“Wifey,” he warned.
“You’re right — I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Thank you for making my tea. Can you start Aza’s lunch? I’m gonna throw together their breakfasts.”
Taylor: <grunts resignedly>
Ten minutes later, the kids were still slooooowly moving through their breakfasts.
“Keep your head still,” I reminded my daughter for the umpteenth time. My French braiding skills were already pretty rusty — and they certainly weren’t improved by my daughter’s wiggles.
Finally, however, both of her petite braids were complete, and we could move on to the next task.
“Can you get yourself dressed?” I asked.
“No.”
I sighed. “Have you gone potty, at least?”
“No.”
“Ok, well, let’s start with that.”
As Aza ran toward the bathroom, I barked, “Ok, Bobhi, now it’s your turn.”
Borealis trotted over and began to disrobe. Then, catching sight of his day clothes, he shrieked, “What — you got me a new shirt? And new pants!?”
“Yes, yes,” I encouraged. “New shirt and new pants. Come on, let’s hustle.”
“Please come wipe me!” came a call from down the hall.
“Taylor!” I yelled.
“Nope,” he responded.
I groaned. “Ok, Aza, I’m coming!”
Not surprisingly, my free-spirited daughter was already completely naked. As I entered the bathroom, she fixed me with her cornflower eyes and chirped, “Wipe me, Mommy!”
“Why don’t you wipe yourself?”
She shrugged. “I don’t like to wipe myself.”
“But I don’t like to wipe you, either. And one day, you’ll need to wipe yourself.”
Aza breathed out dramatically. “But today is not that day.”
… which, admittedly, was true. After patting my daughter with some toilet paper, I hustled her out of the bathroom and back to the living room — at which point, Rhys enthusiastically trilled, “Nakey dance!”
(Because he, too, had shed all of his clothing.)
Bo, at least, was partially dressed — that is, until his siblings’ impromptu celebration spurred him to whip off his underwear and add his voice to the mayhem. Thus, my three beloved children began alternately waving around their penises (Bo and Rhys) or gyrating maniacally (Aza).
Annnnnnnd that’s when I lost it.
“EVERYONE GET ON YOUR CLOTHES, NOOOOOOOOW!” I bellowed.
[Note: Yes. Borealis gets it from me.]
All my kids froze and looked at me, so I was able to continue at a reduce volume. “You each have a special dress-up day today, but neither of you is doing a good job of getting on your clothes. And, neither of you is setting a good example for Rhysi to follow.”
Naked Aza immediately climbed into my lap. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
I lightly patted her bare bottom. “I forgive you, Aza. And, I’m also sorry for yelling at you kids. Will you forgive me?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Ok, now I really need you to get dressed. Nyla’s mommy is gonna be here any minute.”
Finally — finally — my older kids buckled down to the task at hand. Bo dressed as a “quarterback”; Aza dressed as a “cowgirl”. Neither outfit looked quite on-theme — but at least they both looked intentional. Oblivious to this distinction, the kids marveled at themselves in the hallway mirror.
Watching them, I suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! The eye black!”
“Gaelyn’s here,” Taylor announced at that moment. “We gotta get shoes on!”
I quickly grabbed our face paint. “Just a second!”
I dashed to the kitchen for a smidge of water and globbed some paint onto a brush. I tossed the paint palette back onto the counter, then slopped the “eye black” onto Borealis’s cheeks.
Pulling up the Camera app, I announced, “One quick picture for the mems!”
I helped Taylor herd the kids into the mudroom, into their shoes, and out the door. Taylor performed the juvenile hostage exchange with Nyla’s mom: Aza would ride with Nyla’s little sister to preschool, and Nyla would ride with Bo to kindergarten.
A minute later, with the big kids safely in their respective cars, I sagged against the door in relief. We had done it! (Sort of.) And we had even been on time! (Sort of.) Now, all I had to do was care for my little naked Rhysi…
… who was being *awfully* quiet.
“Rhysi?” I called.
I heard a giggle from the kitchen and went to investigate.
The first thing I saw was the stool, dragged to the counter. The second thing I saw was the paint palette, removed from the counter and now on the floor. And the third thing I saw was the face paint itself — except, in this case, it wasn’t actually *face* paint.
Smiling broadly, Rhys pointed to his decorated member. “Rhysi paint my penis!”
I sighed. “Rhysi paint your penis, indeed.”