The following three stories occured within a single 24-hour period.
When I came home from work at 9:30 Tuesday night, I said goodnight to my youngest, already in bed, and did a walk-through of the house. My role, as it would seem, is to serve as the official lights-off person, since it would be beyond my family to push a switch to the down position in all of the unused rooms in the house. As I walked into the dining room, I saw what appeared to be a small weasel under my daughter’s chair. Since it wasn’t moving, I approached it, to find that it was the same color and consistency as my six-year old’s hair.
I went to her room, hair in hand, to say mildly, “What is this?”
She started to cry. “I’m sorry.” she said.
“Don’t cry. I just want to see where you cut it. That’s not so bad. But honey, why did you cut your hair?”
“I don’t know. Sorrrrrryyyyy.”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to cry.”
“Honey, this is my fifth haircutting incident. I don’t have the energy to get mad anymore. Can we just please keep the scissors only on the paper? What do you think? Okay?”
The next morning, I got my youngest out of bed while her sister came into the room.
“Oh,” I said to my youngest, “we forgot to leave your tooth for the tooth fairy last night.”
“No we didn’t,” she said, as a look of horror crossed my face. She went to her pillow as my oldest and I exchanged glances that said approximately, Oh, shit.
“It’s still here!” she cried.
“Well,” I said, “uh, when your tooth is loose and falls out as quickly as it did yesterday, sometimes the tooth fairy doesn’t know to put you on her rounds. So, she, uh, doesn’t come. But I’m sure she’ll come tonight.”
My oldest suggested that we yell up to the tooth fairy, so we all began to yell to the ceiling (or to my husband in the next room, depending how you want to look at where the fault lies in the tooth fairy fiasco) that the tooth fairy needs to come tonight there’s a tooth here for her.
This isn’t the first time the tooth fairy has passed us by, that bitch, and I am certainly going to have a word with her manager.
Yesterday, after work, I had my two kids and two of their friends, and we all decided to go to the school’s International Food Festival and fifth/sixth grade chorus concert. The kids thought some of their friends would be there, so they wanted to go. I agreed to take them because they were serving my favorite kind of food free food that someone else has made. I had a nice dinner of a variety of foods lovingly crafted by parents to represent their cultures.
The children ate Domino’s pizza.
But we finished eating at 6:30, and the concert didn’t start until 7:30. I took them outside to play on the lawn in front of the school to burn off some energy. They started bickering. But cool mom that I am, I had the solution.
I went to my car and took out a three-foot styrofoam plane, new in the package. I brought it to the lawn and was immediately surrounded by my children, their friends, and a couple of spare kids. As I put the wings on this masterful diversion, I was the coolest mom in the school nay, in the world.
Until I broke the plane in half.
Oh, I tried putting the plane back together with the stickers in its package, and it held up for a couple of flights. I found myself cursing the gods, knowing if only I had duct tape things would be different. The children ran away, my moment in the sun was over, and discouraged, beaten I read the book I had stowed in my coat pocket for that moment when I would become marginalized by my kids.
The book in my pocket? Alanna: The First Adventure.
The book that should have been in my pocket? 101 Secrets a Cool Mom Knows.