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Show Page 10 The Ogden Valley news Volume XIV Issue XXIII September 15, 2007 How Many Days Until School Starts By Paige Schickedanz I never thought that I would ever say this. I cannot wait, as in . . . I am hanging on by a wet tissue for school to start. I am finding myself driving by the schools on my way anywhere and experiencing a sense of longing that can only be compared to what a woman feels when she is 9 months, 17 days pregnant. “Desperado” is my theme song. I plunked down over one hundred dollars for school supplies with a beaming grin plastered crazily across my face. I fantasize about being chronically punctual, if not early, for the entire school year. I watched leaves fall from a tree today in the breeze, and literally sucked in my breath in ecstasy of anticipation as to what that represents. And no fool that doesn’t have 95 minutes to kill asks me anymore what I am going to do “with all the free time” this fall. To say that my emotions are fairly transparent is to put it mildly . . . and here is a taste. Par for the course, it occurred to me on Friday of last week that Kate, at age 11, needed a physical for Middle School if she wanted to participate in any sports this year. So I called the pediatrician and proceeded to beg for an appointment which normal people require a two month wait. Thanks to the perfect women, who actually call and officially cancel appointments, I get an appointment for Monday at 2:15 p.m. Monday morning arrives and everyone wakes up determined to have a crappy attitude. The morning is filled with bickering, including my gripes of, “Am I the ONLY one in this house who can see garbage around this house and picks it up?!! And, “If you want clean clothes then put them in the laundry . . . . Is that difficult?!!! We were all just a pack of moaning misery. Kate did squeeze in an Internet search on whether or not the 11 year-old check up included any shots, and confirmed that no shots were involved, but she may need some blood drawn. She mentally prepared for this event, then she and her three siblings grumpily climbed into the truck and we were on our way. I noted that we were driving on fumes and, since I actually had cash on me, decided to fuel up before I blew the gas money on something crazy like a pedicure. As I left the car to go inside, several children yelled to me that they were “dying” of thirst. In a moment of generosity, or sadism, I purchased two lemonades for the four of them to share. I was thanked for the nectar of life by ten minutes of accusations of backwashing, and blatant goobering on the mouth of the bottle. I don’t like my kids anymore .... I swing by the Middle School to pick up the appropriate form for the exam, as the original one is likely shoved under the couch at home, and I had no interest in opening that can of worms. Debate ensues over who will go in and get it with Kate and Pete emerging victors. Ashleigh, left in the car, fumes that she “never gets to do anything.” I am on my last nerve. But, miraculously, I am running on time. To get to the doctor’s office I have to go to Woodward, and in Michigan, if you need to go anywhere on the main drag of Woodward, it often involves complicated taking-a-right-to-take-a-left to get headed in the right direction—which was left. Anyway, I turn right and go to the turn-around, peeking at the traffic, and pull out. Mid turn-out I realize that, although it wasn’t close or dangerous (no one had to hit the screeching brakes), it may have been perceived as, so to speak, “rude” by oncoming traffic. No sooner do I pull up to the red light at the next corner, I hear a honking and look to my right to see a woman signaling me to roll down my window. She is approximately 53 and appears to be, what I perceive as, irritated or concerned. In that split second I decide that I am, for once in my life/day, not going to lie down and listen to anyone else gripe about my shortcomings. I roll down my window, and she starts to open her mouth. I yell; yes, even scream . . . with all four kids in the car, “Hey, lady! If you don’t have anything nice to say to me just keep if to yourself!” She looks appalled and then says, as I peek in my rearview mirror with synchronized horror, “Your gas cap is hanging off.” I am such a loser. All my kids have slumped to the car floor, some laughing and, at least one, mortified. I call back to the lady, “Thanks. I’m having a really bad day . . . . Sorry . . . I’m a loser . . . . Really sorry.” I pull away from the light slowly, trying to recover for the kids who are ALL laughing now. Two more cars honk and point to me before I pull into the safety of the medical parking lot where I climb out and humbly close my gas gap. If I had had a straw with me, I would have just popped it in the tank and sucked it down, but I was still on time for the doctor’s appointment. There was potential for some measure of success in the day. I unloaded the kids from the truck and paraded, literally, into the medical building. I have been increasingly conscious of our physical presence as we go places now. The actual space that we occupy is becoming alarming (as in the length of the month of August.) I feel that I am dripping with arms, legs, heads, feet, and hands that need to touch everything within possible reach if they can’t probe it with their tongues. I am horrified with the amount of public space that I, and my awkward offspring, intrude upon. I spew, “Don’t touch that.” “Stop touching me.” “Stay close.” “Don’t touch your sister again.” “Stop making that sound,” and, “I’m serious . . . .” “No more spit bubbles,” like most people breathe. When the kids reach the age when they are embarrassed by me we should be considerably comedic, and take a long time to get anywhere. We finally arrive at the doctor’s office with minimal fighting over button-pushing in the elevator and limited drinking fountain stops. We were impressively on time, and then, surprisingly, called quickly into the exam room. Of course, all the kids want to join Kate and me in the exam room. I exert my parental authority and seize the opportunity to pretend to be the parent of one. “No. You three wait here. I’ll be back in thirty minutes, and don’t try to find me. Everyone here is a nurse, so you will be fine. Don’t lick anything.” I grab a Good Housekeeping magazine and follow Kate to the closet where she is to be check out. Apparently, parents should not read People magazine here. Kate is weighed, measured, told to take it down to underwear, and handed the paper robe. She attempts meaningful conversation with me, but I am already engrossed in the 2002 article about Joan Lunden’s surrogate triumph. Mom, out. The doctor finally graces us with her genius and checks Kate. She talks about weight, which is a subject that is worrying Kate. I have repeatedly assured Kate that she is completely normal and lucky to have height on her side, but she is now scientifically satisfied with a graph that the doctor demonstrates on her computer. The doctor then whips out the fact that Kate is due for a tetanus shot. I see Kate steady herself on the exam table. This does not jive with the research she has done. She is told that she can have it this year or next year, but why not do it now while you are here? You know, get it over with. Kate looks to me for support, but I am trying to discretely tear a recipe out of the Good Housekeeping so I am of no practical use. “Yeah, Kate. Uh, get it over with,” . . . (where are those nail clippers when you need them? Who knew Good Housekeeping was so . . . good?). So we’re doing the shot. The doctor leaves and Caroline, age 6, shows up. I wonder how many rooms she has peeked into before she discovered me, but don’t really care. I take Caroline to the bathroom and seriously screw up some kid’s eye test in the hallway. I send Caroline back to the waiting room with the instructions not to come back, and to tell Pete and Ashleigh the same. I confide that, “Kate has to have a big shot!” I swear I heard the sucking in of breath, and maybe some hysterical giggling from the waiting room a few seconds later. I return to the exam room where, instead of sending in the nurse immediately after dropping the “Shot Bomb,” they let Kate sweat it out and simmer in a building panic for twenty minutes. I try to lighten the mood by putting the magazine down and telling Kate that Victoria Principle has had no plastic surgery, at least as of July 2002. She is not easily diverted from her current state of “freaking out.” Finally the nurse comes in with “the basket.” The basket holds the alcohol wipe, the shot, and the Band-Aids. We are now peaking, in terms of mental breakdown on Kate’s part, but the nurse and I assure Kate that it will be fast and easy. I don’t say, “Like a few girls I knew in high school,” but I think it and SCHOOL STARTS cont. on page 13 |