To Feel Welcome

Still settling in to the new “routine” and working out where the hell I’m supposed to be at which time on which day.

Of course, in order to relieve the pressure on my brain, I have it all laid out for me – or, walled out for me; stick to various walls around my office and the kitchen in a rainbow of appointments, commitments and other engagements.

To be doubly sure, I also have various notes stuck above, below and around these highly visible calendars. This month’s calendar had a lot on it; mostly to ensure I remembered all the new stuff going on this year.

I muddle through our day, Chippie at home with me all day, Grumpy Pants setting off for his first day of work, that three weeks ago wasn’t in his roster, but a phone call early last week confirms that, yes, he’s definitely rostered on … he arrives home not three hours later to advise that he is not on today’s roster.

I internalise my hissy fit at the sheer, ongoing fuckheadedness of the alleged ‘manager’ of such things. The repetitive nature of this fucking around is not doing my mind terribly well.

On the upside, I can focus on a little work; which always makes me feel better.

We respectively greet and collect our additional offspring from school, and organise for our evening; a welcome picnic for the kinder at a local park/playground followed by guitar lessons. This, obviously, requires much Requesting Of The Being Organised For Guitar Lessons before we leave. This takes up a LOT Of time.

Therefore, we arrive at the picnic five minutes late; which is impressive for me, as I have a pathological fear of being late. So much so that even when I deliberately try to be late, I am still five minutes early. I didn’t want to be early for this event, and was happy to be even ten minutes late. Being early to such events increases your chances of becoming things like the Parents & Friends Committee President and the link.

I’m not up for that this year and will do my damndest to prove just how unsuitable for the job I am. I’m not actually unsuitable for it, I just don’t want it.

It’s quiet in the park, it’s easy to find a place for our blanket and to set up our picnic. Ten minutes later, the kids running around the almost-void-of-children playground like crazies, the park is still quiet. Instead of more families gathering, it appears to be emptying.

I am not taking this personally.

A little further on in time, not much has changed. Grumpy drives home to check the invite, still stuck to the wall above our Month Of Activities, to confirm we have the right location. I’m positive the date is correct, but may have been half an hour out on time.

He returns. The location is right. The day and time are right.

It’s the month I have wrong. I console myself in that it is only ever dates in February and March that this sort of thing can happen.

We have a nice picnic dinner, discuss the loveliness of our family evening and debate whether we do it more often, walk to guitar lessons, Chippie falling off a fence along the way, and head home for a much needed glass of wine.

I must say, my penchant for being early has achieved all new levels this time … I will not be telling the kinder about this incident.

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