Saturday

If maternity was a fraternity*(1), this would have been hell week.
There was a lot going on during this last week of school. And just the fact that it's the middle of June and my kids are still in school is enough to tick me off. But add to that annoyance dance recital rehearsals, play rehearsals, a science project (yes, we really did extract the DNA from stawberries) and all manner of end-of-year garbage and needless to say, I'VE BEEN SPANKED!
The honest to goodness best part of my Wednesday was getting a filling. It was kind of awesome because I just sat back in the chair and did nothing. The downside was that when I went to get a fresh Double Gulp*(2),
the left half of my mouth was numb and when I'd sip thru the straw, a teeny bit is soda would spurt out. Price you pay....
So come this Saturday morning, I was looking forward to wrapping up all of this madness. I knew today would be hectic:

-get Middle child to his cubscout day camp activity by 8am. Camp is an hour away? Mental note: leave in time for  pit stop and diet coke.

-12noon...dance recital for my daughter.

-3pm...musical theatre performance for my daughter. She is Linus in a little vinette of "Charlie Brown".

I knew my husband would be working all day. He has been working almost non stop all month. I had to gently remind him that Sunday is Father's Day and no matter what, he had to be home. With him out of the picture, I had to figure out what to do with my other boys.

5 and 3 are great ages. They are funny and brilliant and loud. These two in particular will tackle each other without any provocation what so ever. And they LOVE potty humor. I have even caught my 3 year old showing a neighbor girl  his penis. Yeah for boys!
That considered, I wasn't going to take them to a dance recital and then a play. All totaled, that would be 5 hours of required silence and stillness.
I asked my teenager if he'd stay home with them. He said yes. I didn't even have to bribe.
I was so proud.

So after I dropped cubscout off, I came home and showered and dolled up myself and my tiny dancer.
Going into the dance recital, I knew it would be close. My daughter wasn't scheduled to go on until the last act. She had two dances an one was kind of in the middle of the beginning of the second act, and the other was at the end of the middle of the act. Can you follow that?
I had the good fortune of sitting next to one of my neighbors, Ken. I had the good fortune because Ken's wife was a designated "backstage mom" and she gave me her ticket. As the show was starting, I explained to Ken how I had to leave no later than 2:30 to make it to my daughter's play. We counted the acts and guessed at the amount of time each would take (I said 5 minutes, he said 3. He was right).
All told, if things went off without a hitch, my little ballerina would miss the finale, but at least get to do both her numbers. And with that, the show began.

Recitals are a funny thing. I love to watch the tiny little ones...the ones who spin in the wrong direction, sing/scream at the top of their tiny lungs, or just cry. It's all delightful. I'm not so much of a fan of the free movement dancing where the dancers have pained expressions on their faces- the whole time. Maybe it's because with all that crap make-up and ridiculously bright red lipstick, they know they look bizarre and totally inappropriate. Remind me to tell you about ballroom dancing because that just made me think of something.....

Each time the lights would go down, Ken's 8 year old son would use his pocket flashlight to see who of significance was up. Ken would chat with me about one-dance-studio-town details. We counted how many dances Tracy's (another neighbor) girls were in and he told me that one year she spent $600.
"A month?", I asked.
"On costumes", he replied.
I know, right. W.O.W.
And then the lights would come up and we'd watch these cute girls with smiling, hooker-ish faces.
After a painfully long intermission, we concluded my girly girl would make it thru her ballet number, but it wasn't looking good for jazz. But then, THEN, the dance studio owner restarted the 3 year olds and their "Popeye" number. What the heck...I couldn't help but sigh out loud after several minutes of adjustments and repositioning. Ken tried to be supportive with an occasional, "This is killin' you, huh."
During this impromptu beak in the action, we tallied the cost of lessons and costumes. I won't repeat the total here (my husband may read this) but Ken did mention that I could have taken my little girl to New York City for a fancy girls weekend, including Broadway shows and shopping and pampering for about as much as I had just blown on unperformed dances and unworn costumes.
But, as luck would have it, my Draling Dear made it thru ballet and then I wisked her away to Musical theatre. We had a few franctic moments in the parking lot trying to get all the gunk off of her face. Despite that, we made it to the show in plenty of time.

When she was settled in backstage, I went to my seat and checked in with my teenager. All was well. He and 5 year ols were playing video games.
"And 3 year old? Where's he?"

"Oh, he's asleep on the floor."
Sounded about right.
I hung up the phone and started to reread a favorite book of mine. I was only a few pages into it. And I really was into it. As this horrible scene of violence started to build, I could feel my chest tighten up. I tried to read faster, to get throught the painful part (you have to know that I love Sarah Agnes Prine as much as any real girlfriend and her struggles become my heartache. And right at that moment she was struggling and my heart was breaking). Just as the scene unfolded into a terrible moment, the show started.
That totally sucked.

The show was amazing. The 2 1/2 hours flew by and as my duaghter and I were getting into the car, she asked if I would take her to McDonald's for a mcflurry. All seemed right.
Then, I noticed a new voicemail on my cell.

It was my friend Sasha. My cub carpooled home with her boys. After they dropped my son off, her boys told her how some older boy scouts had tied my cub scout up to a tree and wouldn't untie him even though he told them to stop and had started crying.
I was sick and enraged at the same time.

I called Sasha- got some info.
I called home. My husband had just arrived and knew nothing. I chatted with my son who explained it all to me and I fought back tears listening to his account. I kind of was crying for anyone who has ever been picked on or held against their will. My mother bear was growling and ready for action.
Not long after I hung up with my son, my husband called.
To say he was upset doesn't quite give you a true sense of the anger rolling off of him, pinging off cell towers and somehow, somehow, finding it's way to me.
Let me just say this, my husband and I are a great team. While he would, and could, rip someone's head off*(3) for messing around with his family, I have a bit of a diplomatic streak. When things go wrong, it is always a good idea for me to be the family spokesperson. (I have some really fun examples. But I can't tell you. Sorry.)

Long story made longer, we all came home. We all had scrambled eggs for dinner. Except for my 3 year old who wouldn't sit still. He kept getting up from the table. My husband announced that we would all go and get ice cream after dinner. 3 year old was told again to sit down. He was warned he wouldn't get ice cream if he didn't sit and eat his eggs.
Guess what?
At the ice cream place, while all the kids ordered their tasty treats, I held him while he cried. He was so sad. So was I. I wanted him to have  a treat just like his brothers and sister. But I also knew that this was a great chance for him to learn an important lesson: Mom and Dad mean what they say.

He cried some more as we all piled into the suburban. A minute down the road, while a tear still on his cheek, 3 year old said, "Dad, tomorrow I finish my eggs and then get ice cream."
It was a statement of understanding more than anything. And with that, my teenager, sitting next to him, offered him a big scoop of ice cream. It was kind of a beautiful moment.
Really, all these moments: good, bad, painful, sad, whatever...are beautiful. I am extremely grateful for the happy moments, but I know they wouldn't feel the same if the bad ones weren't sprinkled in, too.


And, in case my husband is reading this, there are some bad moments coming. Did I tell you I've been really emotional? And did I tell you I have 2 pimples?



Footnotes:
1. Maybe the greatest sentence I have ever composed. I thought you should know.
2.Yes, it is a proper noun.
3. I picture this happening in an Edward/Twilight sort of way.