So pete and pinky are headed towards the home stretch on this whole school business as I've previously mentioned. This means it's awards time.
I hate awards ceremonies. Actually, I hate school ceremonies of all sorts. They remind me of those nightmarish assemblies from childhood where you were dragged kicking and screaming to sit under the watchful eye of your stern faced teacher for two hours just to wait for your 15 seconds of fame. It doesn't help that all school gyms smell like sweat, french fries, and humiliation.
So my kids kiss me good bye with their chirpy little voices and barely brushed hair and remind me, MOOOOOMMMMYYYYY, you're coming to the award ceremony, right?? Yes, yes, 11:15, I know, I'm muttering without much assurance given I just hit the good sleep phase after feeding pudding less than an hour prior.
Okay, mom, pete tells me. He wants to show me the award and trophy he won almost six months ago that his art teachers been sitting on for an eternity. I've never even seen this damned thing. That alone might be worth enduring the ridiculously annoying sound of rubber scritching across whatever the hell they make gym floors with. Plus, he needs me to bring it home. Apparently, both the art and the trophy are too big to take home on the bus with them. I tell pete that thing better look like some Picasso or he owes me money and then I go back to sleep knowing I have plenty of time to catch up on my beauty rest.
At the proper time and not a moment before given my glorious excitement over this event, I start preparing to venture out into society. I dress the kid, dress myself, I even do my hair even though it's been pouring all day and I'm guaranteed to look like a cross between a drowned rat and a bishon frise whose just been introduced to a light socket. I chase down the camera, shove an extra pacifer in my back pocket, spend an eternity looking for the last place I left the Moby wrap and other assorted tasks. I pick up the kid, slap a hat on his head and I'm ready to go when I spy the little flyer letting me know exactly where in this maze of brick and dry erase boards I'm headed.
I pick it up and give it the quick glance over when I see the times assigned to my clamoring little children.
10:15-11:15 am in the gymnasium
Side note: why must they spell out gymnasium, can someone tell me? Is it to sound smarter? Help kids with their vocabulary?
But that's neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is that I have promised my children I would show up at their smelly, obnoxious little ceremony and I have bungled it all by getting the stupid times wrong. No one is every going to believe it was an accident after I just shared my universal loathing of such events. But it was, I swear. I may hate assemblies and award ceremonies and sitting through all the other chatterbox, loud mouth, sniffly little foot squicking children but I have to admit, I get all sorts of verklempt when they call my babies' names and they flop across the stage, chests puffed out with pride to get their little Mathematics master certificate and free McDonalds hamburger coupon that we never manage to cash in.
As pete says, who goes to McDonalds and orders a hamburger? Eww, mom. Eww.