James' First Field Trip

So I am awaken this morning when James’ sweet little voice interrupts my dreams with, “Buffy, I’m late for school.” Use to James’ pre-clock-reading concern over time, I roll over and try to get my sleep blurry eyes to read the clock only to discover that we are indeed late for school and therefore his First Field Trip.

It is 8:50. Normally the troops and I leave for school at 8:30 and even then often miss the start of morning announcements. My chances of being James’ favorite mother are officially screwed.

I jump out of bed, shouting general march orders to the household to cease current activities and change from their pjs, i.e. yesterday’s clothes, into today clothes. Heeding my own orders, I swapped my p.j. bottoms for jeans (my first pair of jeans since I got pregnant, I might add), and I make the executive decision to forgo hunting for and then wrestling into a bra.

I stumble into the kid’s room, pulling out jeans for James to match the glow in the dark jack-o-lantern face shirt he pulled from the closet. Not the classiest for his First Field Trip, I know, but I make the instant rationalization that it is still appropriate since they are going to a pumpkin patch and hay ride.

Gillian, after ignoring the general march orders, is forcibly removed from in front of the computer and wrestled into a skirt a size too small, but it had the advantage of being the first skirt I could find (why do we even have that skirt?).

Every 30 seconds I repeat the order for everyone to get his or her shoes on, as I race to get the super neat and special lunch I had planned for James’ First Field Trip ready. I am trying hard to suppress thoughts of how I will make this up to James if we miss his class. I know he will be brave and forgiving about it, but that just makes the failure so much worse.

Finally done, the kids miraculously have their shoes on as ordered and I send them outside to get into the car. All the running around however cause me to rethink my hasty decision to forgo the bra, and while the kids are loading up, I race back to my bed room, hunt down a bra and load the breasts up.

I run to Eleanor’s room and get my poor sleepy and faulty alarm clock out of bed, grabbing my purse, and James’ lunch, we head to the car. While buckling my three children into the back seat of my sedan, James' earlier questions of “what is the weather like?” finally kicks in and my response changes from, “how the heck do I know?—probably cold like all the other days this week” changes to, “Oh dear, the field trip is outside!” I finish the last safety buckle, then run to unlock the front door and find James’ hat and coat exactly where they are suppose to be. How often does that happen?

Finally, we are on our way.

Two seconds out of the driveway, Gillian cries that she is hungry eliciting a, “Hungry? Hungry! You mean you didn’t have breakfast? Oh James, I am so sorry. Gillian you can wait until we get home. If you were really that hungry you would have stopped playing computer and got your own breakfast, a skill I know you have. Now stop crying, there is nothing we can do about it now.” James replies, “That’s okay mom, I won’t be too hungry.” In contrast, Gillian immediately starts up with The Scream.

Those of you with Gillians at home, know The Scream. The scream that is the exact opposite of a siren’s cry making you want to be any place but there with your child. The magical scream that transforms the iron gates protecting long lasting, mother tested and approved rules into tissue paper, thereby making the scream increasingly powerful. I grit my teeth trying to ignore The Scream and pray that it doesn’t keep up once we get to the school where other, better mothers who have not allowed The Scream to get so powerful, might judge.

We arrive at the school, park on the street, James and Gillian jump out as I unbuckle Eleanor and we start the mad dash to the building. The middle schoolers milling around the hallway making their way to class fill me with hope that we aren’t that late.

We approach James’ community and I send him in, peaking my head in to find the children still sitting and the volunteer parents uncomfortably standing on the sideline. We made it. All is well with the world.

I watch James go to his cubby, happy that I haven’t failed him completely and suppressing guilt at not being a volunteer parent on this the day of James’ First Field Trip.

The girls and my sedate trek back to the car felt anti-climatic. At home, I discovered a long scratch down Eleanor’s face that I suspect is from my engagement ring and as I cleaned up the kitchen while Gillian ate breakfast, I had to pull pieces of Teflon out of the bread I used for James’ lunch. Apparently, it is time to get new bread pans.

But, you do what you can, other mothers be ----. Sorry, I don’t really say that, or even think it. I originally stopped with “…can,” but it rhymed and I couldn’t resist. Dang it. I’ll never be an “other, better mother!”

**addendum--when I picked James up from school. I realized that I had sent him with Gillian's coat rather than his own. So he spent his First Field Trip wearing a "girl coat." He seemed okay about that however.