Here’s my most recent motherhood faux pas (okay, the most recent one was ten minutes ago, but it wasn’t good enough to blog about):
Two weeks ago my first grader brought home a note saying his class would be dismissed two hours early the following Monday and Tuesday. Crap, I thought. I have enough trouble remembering things on our usual schedule. Throw in a monkey wrench like this, and there’s no telling what might happen.
My son must’ve sensed this, because he reminded me repeatedly about the schedule change all weekend long, as well as Monday morning. Don’t forget! he said.
No problem, I said. I’ll be there. Count on it. And ta-dah! On Monday afternoon at 1:25 I pulled up in the school driveway, triumphant. Big grins from my son.
On Tuesday afternoon at 2:05 the telephone rang.
Now, I’m sure you can figure out the rest of the story, but I’ll tell you anyway: My son waited on the street corner in front of the school for 40 minutes, craning his neck so he could look farther down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of our 1994 BMW. (That’s Big Mormon Wagon to you.) Eventually one of the Kindergarten teachers caught sight of him and brought him to the office, where one of the prim-faced secretaries looked up the phone number for the poor kid’s negligent mother. And when I pulled up in the school driveway there were no big grins. Instead, my son’s face twisted with relief and held-back tears.
I waited for an hour, he managed to choke out. I will never, ever forget the look in his eyes.
Of course I cried, and made sure he knew it wasn’t really an hour, and apologized profusely, and let him play games on my computer for an hour once we got home. It still hurts to think about, which is good, because pain is an effective teacher, and I never want to leave my kid on the corner again. (Although I confess, I probably will.) But it also makes a great Mother’s Day story, does it not?
So let’s have it, ladies. What’s your latest or greatest screw-up? You know what I mean–the one that’ll make us laugh and/or groan in sisterly sympathy. Not the one that’ll spark a lawsuit. (Those, you can email me privately.)
(Joking. I’m joking.)