Do you know someone who always seems to ask for favors at
the very worst time possible? You must know at least one that person, right? I mean, I love helping people when I can but there are days where I wish I could
put on an invisibility cloak, and hide out until all is clear.
I'm thinking about a morning I had like that, quite a while back.
It was already turning out to be a weird day because I left
the house wearing my yoga pants inside out. I didn't realize it until I was under the glaring lights of Safeway,
inspecting bananas. If I'd made this
discovery at the grocery store near our old house I probably would have just
pretended that I didn't notice until I made it home because the restroom there
is terrifying. I know this because both
of my children were potty trained at our old house so I was intimately
acquainted with every public toilet within a ten mile radius. Luckily, Current House Safeway has a bathroom
that is reasonably less terrifying than Old House Safeway, so I was able to
rectify the situation before anyone noticed. Maybe. Or maybe I became some
stranger's Facebook status.
Now I'm feeling kind of paranoid.
Anyway, it was at about this same moment I realized that, although
I'd invited a whole bunch of people over for dinner that evening, I was going
to have to cancel the party. Actually,
my husband realized it and shot me a text. He saves me from disaster roughly six times per week – like a bald, bearded angel perched on my shoulder.
We were supposed to have everyone over after they attended
my kid's band concert, but I got the concert time wrong. The event started a lot later than I
originally thought, and having dinner at 9:30 on a school night could end
badly. Or rather, the next morning would
begin badly.
So, I bought my bananas, and thought about who to call first
– and what I was going to do with thirty-six hotdogs and the vat of potato
salad in my fridge – when that person started sending rapid-fire text
messages. I knew who it was because he's the only one I know who doesn't give you even a millisecond to respond to
his requests.
Here's the conversation:
Peanut: Mom.
Peanut: Mom.
Peanut:
Mooooooooooooooooom!
(His phone charged per text, by the way.)
Peanut:
Mooooooooom I need you to answer
me!
Me: Yes, okay, I'm
here. What's up?
Peanut: I was
supposed to bring my capes to school today, and I forgot. My teacher really needs themmmmmmmmmmm.
Me: Okay, I can bring
them by lunch. How many do you need?
Peanut: 8.
Me: 8 capes? You only have 5...
(Yes. We owned FIVE capes. Four, if you called the green one a "cloak," which I was unfailingly reminded to do. We belonged to
an elementary school, which really encouraged individuality and creativity (which
is more than awesome) so my kid was allowed to wear a cape (or cloak) almost
every day of the fourth grade. We ended up amassing quite a cape (and one cloak) collection.
Peanut: I knoooooow
Mooooom. I was supposed to make 3 more
but I forgot.
(Yes, yes: I KNOW. You're
probably think I should have said something like, "Well, maybe next time
you'll remember when you promise to do something." That just isn't in my parental makeup. You see, he's a really, really good kid. He's always treated other people how he wants to be
treated. He does his homework without
being told. Therefore, when the kid needs to be
bailed out, I try my hardest to come to his rescue.)
(It looked like I was on my way to Joann Fabrics to buy
some cape-making supplies. At least my
pants weren't inside out, anymore...)
Me: I'll drop them in
the office before lunch.
Peanut: OK that will
work.
(A "thank you" would have been nice but whatever.)
I managed to buy some fabric that didn't require being
hemmed but would still hang in a cape-like fashion. I dragged out my sewing machine, turned on Law and Order, and got
started, stitching gathers at the necklines.
In between capes, I called my family to cancel our dinner plans:
Cape #1, call to my mother
in law: I'm so, so sorry. I have to cancel dinner tonight. The concert starts an hour later than I
thought. I'm glad you can still make it!
Cape #2, voicemail to my
mother: Hi Mom, I know you're working
today. I hope you're able to check your
messages. I have to cancel dinner, and
the concert is later than I thought.
Call me!
Cape #3, text to my
sister: I am such a total idiot :-( Have to cancel dinner. Concert is an hour later. See you there. XO.
I finished the project about twenty minutes before they were
due and poked through my kid's bedroom until I found the rest of the capes
(and cloak). I stuffed them all into a couple of paper
bags and delivered them to the school.
When he hopped into my car at the end of the school day, my child thanked me profusely. He said that
I saved. his. life.
"What did you need all those capes for, anyway?" I asked.
"Look," he showed me a button holding the cape
closed, "it says 'ask me about my cape'."
So I did.
"We're having a canned food drive to help the
hungry. The capes are supposed to make
people pay attention."
Wow. My kid was using
his quirky collection to feed people. If
I had known, I would have offered to sew ten of the things...
Two days later I was volunteering at his school's
Walkathon. As I scooped delicious
fundraiser enchiladas and burritos onto plates, I caught glimpses of several
of those capes, pinned to kids I'd never seen before. A shortish tween boy ran around wearing one, having the time of his
life at the event.
I almost felt bad about damning those extra capes to Cape Hell,
while the thread in the bobbin kept bunching up and making the needle
catch in the loose fabric – because they were serving a great cause.
Now if only I could donate a few dozen hotdogs and a giant
tub of potato salad.
