This is what it feels like to get played by a two-year-old
Yesterday was such a Monday.
I feel like I say that fairly often but, man. Monday really knows how to sucker-punch you in the back, spin you around, pull your shirt up over your head and give you a wedgie.
But yesterday? Yesterday was . . . Monday on steroids.
Obviously Mondays at work are always a little hectic because OMG, Where have you BEEN all weekend?! Didn’t you know that I ordered this test on FRIDAY AFTER 5PM?? WHY WASN’T IT DONE BEFORE NOW?!?!?!?!?!?! Uh, hi, Dr. Panic. We aren’t open on weekends and this isn’t new information. Please take a Xanax, kthanxbai.
Hectic, but expected. We managed to get through the day without too many incidents.
In the afternoon, the doctor that I work with asked if I could give him a ride to his car because it was in the shop.
“No problem,” I offered. “But I have a few issues. I HAVE to leave on time today because it’s costume night at dance class and I have to make sure her costume fits before we take it home.”
“Okay. Not a problem.”
“And there’s one other little thing.”
“Okay . . . “
“Well, it wasn’t an issue this winter because it’s been cold enough, but I’m pretty sure one (or both) of the kids spilled milk in my car and now it kinda smells like something died in there. So I need to drive with the windows cracked open a bit.”
” . . . “
“Oh! And! A piece on my glovebox latch broke so, it’s held together with electrical tape until the part comes in.”
“I see. Okay. It will be fine. Sure. We will be . . . fine.”
He has worked with me for a little over 2 years now so he pretty much knows what he’s up against by asking for a ride. But, still. Professional courtesy and such.
By the time I get Ms. Daisy dropped off at the shop, it’s 4:15. Which leaves me 45 minutes to get to dance class (which is almost exactly 45 minutes away). I haul ace across town, hit the highway and pick up Greg, Jr. Who, of course, is moving at the break-neck speed of a Galapagos turtle so I (im)patiently tap my toes and we scurry out the door. I had called my mom and she so very sweetly offered to watch Brock for a few hours so I could focus on the princess and not have to worry about keeping Brock out of trouble as well.
Awesome. I met mom, dropped Brock off and continued my mad dash across country from one town into another.
At exactly 4:59, I pull into the parking lot of the dance studio and silently cheer for myself for making it on time. I head to the entrance and see a few familiar faces in the waiting area; one of which is my aunt (who takes her granddaughter). We chit-chat for a few minutes before she finally says, “Why are you here so early?”
“Uh, duh? It’s costume week!”
After the obnoxious laughter subsided, she slapped my leg and said, “You dummy! Costumes are in 2 weeks! Bwahahahaha! I laugh at your level of stupidity!”
As I have been wrong approximately twice in my life, I whip out my phone to check the e-mail where I had very clearly read that I was to be there on 2/27 for costume pick-up. Costumes will not be sent home unless a parent is there to pick them up!!!
Finally, I joined in their laughter because I’m an idiot and didn’t actually open the newsletter that was attached to said email. I just saw the heading: Parent Watch Week is Coming Up! and I assumed that nobody else can keep track of dates which is why they wouldn’t warn us 2 weeks in advance. Every other parent understood.
Not me.
Every village has an idiot and apparently I get to wear the crown.
After 1 and 5/6 hours (1 hour of dance, 5/6 hours of tumbling), the teacher peeks her head out of the room, looks at me and says, “Adrianna’s mom??”
Oh Lordy.
“I think we had a little accident.”
Effing perfect. Because while I was on-time, albeit 2 weeks early, I did NOT bring extra clothes.
She creeps out of the dance room, sees me and runs into my arms. I give her a hug and say, “Honey? Did you have an accident?”
“No.”
As I’m well versed in defiant toddler-speak, I try another tactic. “Did you pee in your pants?”
“Nope.”
“Did you poop in your pants?”
“No. No me have a assident.”
“Well, sweetie. The teacher said that you told her that you had an accident. Did you tell her that?”
“Yup.”
Obvious follow-up with “Why?”
“Um? Because we want to go home.”
BOOM.
I got played by my 2.5 year old. And it’s a sad day when all of the parents in the room laugh at you not once, but twice.
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