Crazy Heart Mama

I’m so happy we’re heading into a three-day weekend. We need it!

Yesterday, Kevin called me on his way home from work saying he was going to run a few errands and that he’d pick up Rowan.

Perfect, I think. This gives me time to finish up a few things at work without having to rush. Rowan can stay at after-school care until 6:00, but that’s such a long day when you catch the bus at 6:52. It makes kindergarten seem more like hospital shift work.

Then I get the first call from my husband, “Rowan’s school is on Broadway, right?”

“Yeah, it’s the same kindergarten our other two children went to.”

(I try really hard to not be a smart ass. It’s a daily struggle. But, geez Louise, it’s just too hard sometimes.)

“I realize that,” Kevin said. “Did you ever think it’s been eight years since I’ve been there?”

Six.

(But I didn’t say that! See? I do filter.)

(And it’s the same amount of time for me as well, minus two weeks of pickups and a meet-the-teacher.)

We disconnect the call. Then 45 seconds later, I get another call. I think about sending it to voicemail directly and waiting this out. I mean, this is a man who knows his way around a courtroom. He’s walked people on murder charges. He’s defended people in just about every county in Texas. He’s flown all over the world and made it back home again. Surely, he can locate his own flesh and blood child in a public elementary school aftercare program.

But I answer, “What’s up?”

“I just don’t know where to go.”

“They’re in the gym.”

“Where’s the gym?”

“At the school.”

(I didn’t say I was going to make it totally easy. I mean, I went to pick our child up the first day and I figured it out on my own without any sort of telephonic assistance from him.)

“Where at the school?”

Now he has the cheek to get annoyed with me? I’m gonna spell it out now.

“If you’re standing in front of the school driveway where it says ‘Entrance,’ look to the far right. There will be a field on that right side. Go to the far right side of the building and walk through that gate. The gym should be right in front of you. That’s where Rowan will be.”

“I see a playground,” he says.

“Yeah, keep going.”

“I see a gate, but there’s no path. There’s just grass. I just walk through the grass?”

(For a couple of days in a row, I shit you not, I told him how there’s no sidewalk leading back to the gym where I pick up Rowan. Twice, maybe three times, I mentioned that I thought that might make a great Boy Scout service project for Liam. Pavers would make it so nice. Especially since it’s been raining a ton here and the grass I was walking through was 12 inches high. No fun in a suit and high heels.)

“Just be glad they mowed it yesterday,” I said.

“So where is he exactly?” he asked.

“In the gym. Gotta go. Bye.”

I then receive a text that he found Rowan–Hallelujah!–and that they were stopping by the grocery store to grab dinner.

Perfect.

When I got home, I went to check Rowan’s tote bag. I’d sent him with a thermos full of Spaghettio’s for lunch and I wanted to get that taken care of immediately. No tote bag.

“Rowan, where’s your tote bag?’

“Maybe it’s in Daddy’s car?” he said.

Radio silence from the kitchen where Kevin is plating the rotisserie chicken.

I go out to Kevin’s car. No tote bag, which means no lunch box, which means I’m probably going to have to just throw that thermos away. Call me a coward. I’ll own it. But I cannot muster enough bravery to open a thermos that previously had Spaghettio’s an entire day later.

I trudge back into the house. “Did you forget Rowan’s tote bag?”

“Nobody said anything about a tote bag,” he said. Then he launched into it. This is what lawyers do. I see it every day. A good defense is a great offense. “Listen, you don’t know what it was like when I went to pick Rowan up. You weren’t there. Kids everywhere. And Rowan immediately started screaming, ‘Where’s my mommy? I don’t want you,’ which caused the lady in charge to demand to see my ID!”

I look at Rowan who’s already sitting at the dining table, and he smirks.

“That woman didn’t say anything about me needing to get a tote bag, and Rowan didn’t say anything.”

Another smirk. It’s like Rowan knows I’m thinking, Yeah, he’s six.

“I got home with his name tag.”

(Y’all, that name tag was around that child’s neck.)

Kevin finished up with, “If this is the kind of thanks I get for helping you out by picking up Rowan and making dinner, I just won’t help out any more.”

So I just want to take the opportunity to say, “Thank you, babe! That rotisserie chicken from H-E-B was the bomb, and it was really sweet of you to pick up Rowan from school.”

We can’t have him going around feeling like he’s not appreciated. Then we’d have to start calling him…MOM. 🙂

P.S. If you know anyone else who’s had a tough week, feel free to share this blog with them.