Oh What A Beautiful Morning

The next morning I shower and shave all the shaveable parts, throw on some jeans and a t-shirt, brew some coffee, make the kids a nice hot breakfast, and wait for the smell of muffins to wake them. I have hours to kill.

I log on to my systems at work and piddle with a few projects, returning for more coffee and upgrades to the lunches I've packed every so often.

It is Friday. The kids return to Lars' Lair after school. It is always difficult to part. Pat and I used to fight all morning on Fridays. I think it helped him separate from me if he was good and mad and went to school thinking "Thank God she's out of my hair for a few days!"

But now it is all sweetness and "I'm gonna miss you, Mom" adoration. I tuck some money in cute little cards that encourage Hil and Pat and tell them how much I love them and how proud I am to be their Mom. Give them an opportunity to delay the descension into Hell by stopping at the pizza shop for a slice after school.

Pat is lured into the kitchen by the scent of blueberry muffins. He looks me over and asks why I am dressed like I am. Beads of sweat are forming on his head. I tell him that I am going to school to meet with this one and that one later.

He says he knows that, but by contrast, Dad had dressed for work before he'd gone to see the High Exalted Grand Poo Bah of Discipline. He'd dropped them off at school and gone right in.

Oh. My. God. He's worried about the impression I'll make in my Jack Daniels t-shirt.

I let him know that once I drop them off, I have a few hours before the meeting. (Thanks to the convenient and accommodating scheduling done by the same Grand Poo Bah.) I will spend that time fixing my hair and dressing to impress.

Pat is visibly relieved.

My thoughts turn to my own mother.

Estelle was not like anyone else's mother. (The Harper Valley PTA song starts going through my head when I think that thought.) She was at once, outrageous and enviable. I was torn between wanting to be just like her and fearing that she was laughable. She was lucky to have been pretty. If she had been a mambo-dog-face-in-a-banana-patch barker that kids secretly referred to as Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy, things would have been different. You'd never know what Estelle would come trotting out in, but you dare not question it. And since she was pretty enough to have pulled off wearing a barrel with suspenders and a wax paper hat, not much was said.

Good for Pat to have questioned my appearance. I am as much a representation of him and of Hil as I am of me. And it was never more important than today.