Just in case there is someone out there who thinks, “Organized, pulled-together, homeschooler,” I give you this scenario. It’s Friday morning, lite school day. My husband is home, my washer is humming its slow, energy saving tune, the children run outside before I can instruct them as to books. I glance out the window, see the girls in nighties, hair flying, feet bare. It’s a gloriously sunny morning, so I let them go while I leisurely sip my coffee and do nothing. There are perks to having a slow, energy saving washer. Gabe is outside, damming up his pond. Eventually I pull in the biggest boy for two final tests and a writing page. He grumbles and dawdles a least twice as long as he needs for the exams. The next boy erases and erases his writing papers, driving me crazy with all the ways he devises to waste time. I remember that I need to renew my driver’s license on this day, because I decided to wait until the last minute, just for kicks. I feed my two babies some early lunch, planning for early nap time so that I can run some errands. I see the time and feel good about the day’s progress. 12:00. Yeah, I am right on track, despite slow boys and washers.
12:00. Wait. Wasn’t there something about 12:00 on Friday? And then it hits me like a bag of flour, a pile of sugar, and a pound of butter all mixed together. Yes, that’s right. I was supposed to have 6 dozen sugar cookies at the church house by noon so that the girls doing the widow’s supper can make their favor bags.
I panic. Then I text one of the girls, tell her I will be late, but am coming. With one arm I swipe counter tops clear of assorted clean and dirty dishes and with the other arm I start mixing on high. At my house, the sound of the Kitchen-aid is the cue to come running, pushing chairs, helping. I am afraid the cookies are not being fashioned very graciously. “Out of the kitchen, everybody! Out! Out!” The dough sticks to the rolling pin, the flour flies, and the baby keeps coming back, peering around my elbows, helping. I have exactly two cookie cutters that are not Christmas themed, a teapot and a flower. I remove the baby, pop the first sheet into the oven, come back to find my rolled out dough covered with candy canes. The baby is back. I make a frantic call to my husband on his bulldozer, and he comes to my aid.
At 1:10 I instruct the second son on how to finish the extra dough and sally forth with my trays of 72 pink flowers and teapots. I am late, but the girls are kind and say it is okay.
I go to the DMV, mercifully do not even have to take a number. My phone sings out while I grin for my photo. I check, cannot see who is calling because I am out of minutes. I decide to take the time to go across the street to Goodwill. My little girl and I meander and find this:
for $5.99. I am a sucker for fabric. I love it in all shapes and forms and prints and textures. My little girl and I open the bag, touch the pieces, look through the stack and when she sees the Peter Rabbit coordinating pieces, we decide to buy. (When we get home, I show her the proper attitude toward fabric and we take a picture. And yes, I had her hair nicely combed at some point in the day.)
I discover that the phone call was from my husband, who made an appointment at the bank for 4:00. I am supposed to moderate at the widow’s supper at 5:00. I do not have my girls ready and I have no supper prepared for my men and the visiting boy. I panic again, strip dirty clothes off little girls, shine them up with a washcloth, pull pretty dresses over their heads, sit them on the couch to watch Little Bear. They stay put. I shine myself up, get dressed and go out the door in about 5 minutes. I ask Gabe if I am fit to be seen. He seems to think so.
My girls and I get to the widow’s supper a little early, sit on the school swing set, clip fingernails, and I collect my thoughts. The supper is nice, scores and scores of local widows enjoying the atmosphere that the girls worked so hard to create. They get handed the treat bags of cookies at the end of the program and I think, “They have no idea. God bless them!”
I get home and find that my men had peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper. I am tired.
But I have all this fabric, which cancels out all the rushing and an ugly driver’s license photo. It really was a good day after all. My girls play shopping with the stack. I promise you, they have never seen me load up my cart like this.
(If anyone out there wants a two yard piece of fabric with Christmas angels, the one you see on the floor above, please let me know. You can have it gladly!)
6 thoughts on “The Day That Couldn’t”
Oh my, I almost got panic attacks reading this! What a day- those cookies, I can’t imagine… I spent Friday very sick, in bed, and I think that was almost preferable to your day. At least it probably won’t ever happen again!
I did too! That was panic attack day! This is hilarious! I am so grateful to discover that I too am not alone in this sometimes frantic mom world.
I got tense just reading! And yes, I know days like this too, only for me it would have been racing out the door only to find one of the kids left the key on in the van and the battery is dead and Thad’s gone with the charger and jumping cables with him! LOL:)(this has happened) That fabric surely softened the hardness of the day:) What a find!
This was great! I’ve often found that on those kinds of days, there are bright spots, just like your fabric!:)
Handled all that like a seasoned pro. Gods grace is always with us too. Your an awesome mom and a good woman Dorcas. Blessed.
just gives me the urge to buy some fabric!