I was dreading this weekend. I really was. Jam packed with activities and obligations, it wasn’t going to resemble the traditional 48 hour breather. Not one bit.
It all started Friday morning. Son #2 who, a few weeks back, spent his spring break recuperating from surgery to repair his deviated septum, was in town for a follow-up with the plastic surgeon. Let me back up a bit. The boy’s nose was broken five years ago in a gym class mishap. The first two surgeries he had to rebuild and repair his nose didn’t take. This time, we went to a world-renowned specialist who didn’t disappoint.
In short, my son no longer resembles a hockey player who had a close encounter with a high-speed puck and the chances that he’ll be able to breathe out of both nostrils once the swelling finally goes down are most excellent.
As such, my son and I flew downtown after dropping my youngest off at school. Afterwards, we had to come flying back to the ‘burbs so I could pick son #4 up from school, followed by son #5, then finally son #3.
That evening, though, son #2 and I headed off to a Chris Tomlin concert. It was – as my youngest would say, “fantab“! Not the type of concert at which you’d find me spilling beer on myself or standing in my seat or anything (not that I ever did that, but I’ve heard of people who have), but I did sing along at the top of my lungs and joined the crowd in using my cell phone like it was a lighter to demand an encore. Crazy, I know, but true.
I went to sleep at midnight. Saturday morning, my alarm went off at 6:30 and I shot out of bed. I had to get son #3 to his ACT exam. On time.
With a calculator, three number 2 pencils and a photo ID in hand, I dropped him off and sped back home to pick up son #2. He had a bus to catch downtown that would take him back to campus. As we were just about to enter downtown proper, son #1 called. Seems, after taking an exam that will propel him to career greatness, he found himself on the Magnificent Mile not far from where son #2 would be catching his bus.
And we had forty-five minutes to kill. What are the chances?
After a delightful, albeit brief, catch-up with my eldest, I deposited one boy at a bus stop and the other at a train station so they could return to their respective campuses and I headed back to suburbia.
Still with me? Good!
I zipped along the expressway, calculating if I had enough time to stop at the store before retrieving son #3 from his ACT test site. Defying the laws of physics (and the state police), I made it back to my ‘hood with thirty minutes to spare. Dare I chance it? I decided to brave the Saturday morning grocery store crowds. It was my Dad’s 83rd birthday and I had a party to host, dammit.
Blowing through the store with the force of a megaton bomb, I made it to the test site right on time. As I pulled into the pick-up zone, I got a text from son #3.
“Kirsten is giving me a ride home.”
I replied, “I just got here.”
His reply? “Sorry.”
I drove home mulling my options. Yes, I could guilt him into cleaning the house top to bottom for me, but on realizing that saner people would’ve arranged a car pool situation ahead of time, I decided to drop it.
But I did make him vacuum. And dust. And clean the upstairs bathroom. Then I let him chill. He did, after all, just take a really, really hard test…
By four pm, my house was filled with relatives, the grill was hot and the steaks were thawed and seasoned. By seven pm, the guests were gone. By nine, I was in bed.
Today, in comparison, was sublime. Mass this morning, band concert at the high school this afternoon. Piece of cake. A lesser plate spinner would’ve caved to self-pity. Not that I ever did that, but I’ve heard of other spinners who have.