We’re going to a party! We’re going to a party!
We need to be in temple by 10:30am but I have an appointment at the hair place to blow out my curly curls and get trims for my boys at 9am. It’s 8:15am. We have a half an hour to get out of the house.
“These pants are too tight!” My son yells, and tosses them out of his room into the hall. I hop over, pulling up my tights as I go and get smacked in the face with the offending black pants.
“Didn’t you wear these last week?” I ask, untangling the inside out legs and searching for the tag. Not that it matters. At almost 13, things that fit one week, no longer fit the next.
“I’m ready!” My middle son announces; walking past in a shirt clearly buttoned by a drunk.
“Um, let me help you,” I say, starting to undo and redo. Another pair of pants flies out of my oldest son’s room and I hear him stomping around angrily.
My 7 year-old dances by in his pajamas. “Mommy! Watch my cartwheel!”
“Get dressed,” I order. “No cartwheels now. We’re late.”
I run back into my room to fix myself. My husband emerges from our closet. “This good?” he asks, holding a blue tie against his grey shirt.
I nod that it’s fine and run into the bathroom to play around with some make up my mother brought over.
“I know you like to be ‘natural’, but just something to brighten your eyes? And skin. And maybe a little lipstick?” She suggested so coyly, you barely knew you were being strong armed until you were pinned. Later, I would use a very similar tone trying to convince my son that slightly shorter hair looks better than never combed hair.
“I know what I’m doing,” I had snapped, and am happy she’s not here now to watch me put lip liner under my eyes.
We’re going to a party! We’re going to a party!
“I’m hungry!” My middle son barges in and announces as I’m struggling to close the clasp on my necklace.
“Get yourself some cereal. I need to get dressed.”
“I don’t want cereal,” he says. “I want pancakes.”
I look at him dumbfounded. Seriously? “I’m not making pancakes right now.”
“Forget it! I’m not eating!” He huffs and storms out as my 12 year old storms in. He is frustrated to the point of tears.
I feel his pain.
“I’ll find you something. I promise. Just give me five minutes?” I ask, looking hopefully and reassuringly into his stressed face.
He calms down, gives me a hug and a blessed five minute reprieve to get myself together so we can get to the hair place and then to the temple for the b’nai (double) bar mitvah and then to the other one across town and the ensuing parties that follow.
“It’s raining out!” I hear my husband yell and a glance out the window confirms it. Freaking great. Did I mention the blow out for the curly hair?
My 7 year old cartwheels past, wearing only his Skylander undies.
We’d better get to that party soon. I need a drink.
Actual discarded pants
Icescreammama 