I use Mother of the Moment, because I can’t really claim the whole “Year” thing … I’m bound to fuck up much more than this … as are, I’m sure, many of you.
It’s like “wedding of the year” on TV – there are about three every year, but they all claim to be “the one”. No, that’s not right. There may only be one.
So I shall stick with The Simpsons reference, and quote Homer by saying “I am Mother of the Year … so far!”
It all started two or so weeks back, when I am handed a dark-coloured, adorned with Star Wars type images. It is, it turns out, an invitation to a school friend’s birthday party.
It has all the important information, such a it being a Star Wars them (in case we couldn’t tell by the graphics), and that it was too Monkey Boy. Also, that he had to get his parents permission to watch some M rated Star Wars movies.
(Personally, I didn’t care about the M rating. So long as they were being viewed away from me, I was happy)
The invites, however, overlook the unimportant stuff. Little things, like … say the date, and time. Oh, and the location. Nothing important, really.
Although, to be fair, an obvious, scribbled-on-the-back afterthought of “12 (lunch) at my house” was written on the back. Good think I knew the location of “my house”.
As it happens, a few days into term, the same friend rings and requests Monkey Boy for a sleepvover. Whilst he’s on the phone, I yell at him to find out a few more details about the part – like the date and time, and listen to a bit of “ok, cool, so 11.00 then” and bits of discussion that have me thinking Friend’s Mum doesn’t actually want him there at 11.00 at all.
So … this morning, we are required to purchase the present – because, really, two weeks is just not long enough, it seems, and also, I really wasn’t entirely sure about the date until I was reminded again last night. My dairy was not locatable … just saying.
I am also advised “it’s a sleepover” and much discussion ensues over to whether it actually is or not. I recall no mention of sleepover, it is not written on the back, I am sure. Am also sure it’s not written on the front, either.
Rifle through piles of notes and papers on the bench, locate the invite and find it appears to have been for a swim with the fishes. Or had a drink poured on it. Or possibly both. Or something unfathomable that I couldn’t possibly even think of.
The graphics had melted and the invite, aside from the “12 (lunch) my house”, was illegible … nothing on the invite could be read. But I’m still pretty sure “sleepover” was not mentioned. I also mention that he is not having one. And we have people over for dinner. I just didn’t want to get his hopes up.
End of conversation. Or so I thought.
Nope. It gets brougth up again when we leave the house. And when we reach the corner. And make it to the shop to buy the present. And when we go to buy some coffee beans. And milk and stuff. And when we leave and start heading home.
And when we hit the busiest part of the street, where my resolve dissolves and I say “ENOUGH! There is no sleepover. There is no mention of a sleepover. And if you do not SHUT UP RIGHT NOW! there will also be NO PARTY!”
And a man three blocks away said “yeah, you tell him”. I may or may not have said it very loudly. And also said “shut up” another time or three.
He skulked all the way home. I attempted to explain that his incessant bringing it up was doing my head in and really annoying me.
At least I got himto brush his hair and get sorted to go. We made it by 11.59, I asked what time it finished (because, funnily, that wasn’t on the invite either) and was told “oh, it’s a sleepover”.
By the Mum, so I had to believe it.
“Oh,” I reply.
“Ah ha ha ha,” I add.
And skulk off to the room the kids are all playing in and say, “*ahem*, um, sorry, yes, you were right. Um, *ahem* it is a sleepover, and, um, would you like me to bring your stuff?’
He rolled his eyes a tad, said “yes, please” which was rather generous of him, as he could quite legitimately said much more than that. And would also have been entitled to.
I go home, feeling all light and fluffy and like I was so adequate in my mothering skills it wasn’t funny.
Later that day:
I help to tidy the house for friends coming over for dinner, note an empty envelope, the same freind’s book, a school newsletter from week 6, term 1 and some artwork on a scrap of paper.
I pick up the envelope, suspecting it might have once housed the invite, but you just never know. Before I even get a chance to look inside it, a small piece of paper, approximately 3/4 the size of a postage stamp, flutters to the floor.
I pick it up.
“ps its a sleepover” is scrawled on it.
I packed Monkey Boy’s bag, grabbed my keys, my phone and the little note, drove to friend’s house for the second time that day, handed over his sleeepover stuff (containing his toothbrush