Let's be real, being a kid is hard work.
Not to throw myself a pity party, but... you're now all invited to my pity party - 7pm my place, bring your own chocolate...to give to me.
You see, my firstborn - as they say in Biblical terms (seems appropriate given that Christmas is next week) - had her school's "winter celebration" performance last night. She was so insanely excited for this performance. We're talking like Pee-Wee-Herman-riding-his-bike excited.
The problem came when I received a phone call at 10am yesterday. It was her school. She had a fever and had to come home, never to return again (until her fever had been gone for at least 24 hours). In other words, she couldn't go to the winter celebration.
Her heart broke. Mine broke even more. We cried in the school parking lot together. She was going to be the bell ringer in the performance. The freaking bell ringer, people. (I have no idea what the means, but it was apparently important to her.) It could have been a featured flick on the Hallmark channel that only plays Sunday nights. It was seriously the most heartbreak I've felt for my child thus far.
That's us being fake sad... I'm way better at it than her
What are you all doing just sitting there reading this? Somebody grab me a tissue for crepe's sake!
Anyway, it triggered some of my own childhood heartbreaks and the lessons we all have to learn through life about disappointment.
Like the time my mom packed orange juice in my sack lunch and it leaked out onto my lap during the bus ride to school. The girl sitting next to me looked at me in horror; strange liquid moving its way from my buttocks area, across the brown naugahyde seat and seeping into her pants. The bus driver made me stay on to help clean it up. Nobody at school believed me when I said it was orange juice dried all over my crotch. It was a harsh day. But hey, I learned my lesson: instead of asking for juice again, I started to ask my mom to put a quarter in my sack lunch to buy milk at school (I would inevitably throw the quarter away every day along with my paper bag lunch after eating...and then panic and debate digging in the trash to retrieve it. More often than not, my street-smarts told me that my reputation was way more valuable than that quarter.)
Or, that time when I had a crush on a boy named Josh something or another and he had a rattail. Does anyone remember rattails? We've got beards and moustaches back in full force, when are rattails going to make their comeback? Anyway, in my early-nineties-pre-teenage mind, I somehow thought it was hot. But, as everybody must learn at some point in life (unless you're Angela Jolie), sometimes you just aren't cool enough for the boy with the rattail. I dunno, maybe it had something to do with my outfit choices?
But, hey - redemption here, guys! This story isn't all soggy sad clouds. Mr. Rattail totally asked me to dance with him when it was boys' pick during gym-class square dancing later that year. Aw yeah. High fives all around the world.
Like what you see? Check out my quirky memoir about finding your path in life.
I'D RATHER WEAR PAJAMAS