The kids’ school districts are doing that (stupid) STAR testing this week. I remember forcing my mom to buy me Canadian bacon for breakfast once when I had STAR testing. I have no idea why, but I was convinced that I’d fail if I didn’t have it. And it couldn’t be regular bacon, it had to be Canadian. It’s shit like that that makes me not judge when my kids get totally worked up about stuff that seems like no big thing to me. Even now, recalling it, I’m sitting here thinking It HAS TO BE CANADIAN. H A S T O B E.
So this morning I made bacon and eggs for my kids and gave them their allergy medicine and tylenol for Nate who keeps having sinus headaches because HELLO springtime in Northern California ahchoo ahchoo ahchoo. Then, I told them all if they were ready to walk out the door (that’s defined by: shoes=on feet; hair=brushed; jacket=on body; backpack=full of things you need for the day; teeth=brushed; lunch or lunch money=on your person) at 7:55, then they could have strawberries and whipped cream.
And, you know, with all that bacon cooking and egg frying (in bacon grease, mmmmm) and salami sandwich making this morning, I was running a little behind. Are you all ready to go? I yelled from my bedroom. Yes we are! they yelled back. Ok! Then you may have strawberries and whipped cream, but we are out the door at 8!
At 8 I walk into the living room. The kids are all watching music videos on You Tube. Sophie is barefoot and she’s got a can of whipped cream and she’s holding it up really high and shooting it directly into Willow’s mouth.
Suddenly, I am nobody’s mother. I’m the goddamned dorm monitor for my own chapter of Phi Beta Demonic Children.