Did the pilgrims eat peanuts and how long can I stall on finding out?
Two weeks ago, there were three Scholastic book order forms. I gave Big Guy a $10 budget and he proceeded to keep changing his mind right up until bedtime Thursday. Fewer choices next time, please.
Last week, there was a notice that Friday was Native American Day and parents were invited. Problem: I had a hair appointment I couldn't cancel. Not, at least, without changing my email address from "deb the red" to "deb the shaggy brunette with way too much gray."
"C's mom is staying," Big Guy sulked that morning. Sorry, son. Beauty calls.
Today, it was a seemingly simple question: "Are you ready for more kinder-fun? We're having a Thanksgiving feast Wednesday, Nov. 26." A feast just like the Native Americans and Pilgrims enjoyed.
Unacceptable. I need at least a two months' notice to get in proper put-it-off mode. Saturday's soccer party was perfect. I knew about it in September, which let me work myself into a procrastination lather as I finished the cake 90 minutes before we had to leave for the game.
Back in the preschool days, I had delaying the game down to a science. I knew the Thanksgiving feast would be the Friday before Thanksgiving, give or take a week. I knew it would mean a ton of cooking because I always opted to sign up to take extra dishes I know Big Guy could eat rather than segregate him with his lonely little food-allergic plate.
Yes, I knew all that for three straight years. And every one of them would see me taking the day off work and confining myself in the kitchen in a frantic sprint to pull it all off. I think I went to two of the three feasts with flour in my hair. Or maybe it was just the gray from an overdue hair appointment.
The pressure's on this time. I have only a week and a half. How can I screw this up?
Let's see, the note says the teacher will let us know what we need to bring.
Oh! I could wait until the last minute and ask her if this is a "Ritz and cheese" feast or something more elaborate that will require me to provide Big Guy allergy workarounds for everything from soup to nuts. Strike that: He rarely agrees to eat soup, and he'd likely be allergic to the nuts.
Once I find out what's required, I can come home and make my anal little lists -- one for shopping, one a work schedule. Then I can disregard them until Tuesday afternoon. That ought to amp up the excitement.
I can make for dead certain that there's no one else on Earth to mind the guys that day, so they'll be under foot and we'll all irritate the life out of each other as I scramble to get it done.
And I can arrive at Big Guy's school bleary-eyed and draggy-tailed while all the other parents smile their way through Wednesday morning. For good measure, I'll forget my camera, so I can make an emergency run to retrieve it.
Bonus points here for freaking out Big Guy. He'll know for sure when he sees me jet that C's mommy loves her son more, because for the second time in a row she's stuck around while I've bailed.
It'll be great. "And what are you thankful for, Big Guy?"
"I'm thankful my schmuck of a mom actually bothered to stick around," he'll glare.
Looks like this could work after all. There's still time to procrastinate -- I'll just have to do it a bit faster.
I believe I could handle even less notice next time. I'll make up for it by not baking Santa's cookies in time and then convincing the guys at 5 p.m. Christmas Eve that Claus would really rather have mini-cupcakes. Not that that's actually happened or anything.
Copyright Debra Legg. All rights reserved.