Just Another Day

Do you believe in fate, karma, and all that stuff? I don’t. I think things just happen, or you make things happen. Some events are just random and can’t be made to be more than that. Some days, good things keep on happening and in the end it’s a crappy day, and other days, despite getting crapped on, you can’t shake the smile from your face.

Thursday night, at 11:15pm, my husband got a call from work. The guy who was supposed to work the midnight shift had to leave, because his partner had gone into labor. This meant that my husband, who was scheduled to work at 7 the next morning, had to get up immediately, jump in the shower, and hustle to work the midnight shift. Normally, he takes a two-hour nap before going in; this time, he couldn’t.

So Friday morning, since keeping the boys quiet inside the house can be quite difficult and rather stress inducing, I decided to take the boys out to breakfast at Tommy’s. Since it was so nice out, I ran into the attic to try to find sandals for the boys (hoping in our outgrown stash the little one could use a hand-me-down; no luck). And, since it was so beautiful outside (sunny and 65 degrees), we decided to then walk to Turtle Park, a little playground about a mile away from Tommy’s specially designed for kids 5 and under.

Breakfast went well, and the kids ate up their pancakes topped with strawberries, bananas, and whipped cream. I even got to eat my French toast and bacon. But then, as I reached for the bill, my hair got a little too close to my plate and was syruped. And of course, I had just washed my hair that morning.

Syrup in the hair was annoying, yes, but not horrible. The waitress saw what happened and immediately brought over a glass of water for me to dip my hair into, so no harm was done. The cosmic balance had been restored. We left the restaurant. My younger son got in the stroller, my elder son walked, and his friend (who had joined us as we were finishing up with her mom and younger sister) walked with us (while her mom and sister drove to the playground). For a moment, I contemplated driving over, since the diaper bag was in the car, but I decided it was too nice a day, and besides, I probably wouldn’t need to change my son anyhow.

We walked. It took a little urging to get the kids to keep walking, what with all the fascinating leaves, sticks, and blades of grass to examine. But, soon enough, we could see the girl’s mom and sister waving to us from inside the fence. My son and his friend rushed ahead as I strolled past a tree a few yards behind.

That’s when I felt it. Splat. A small, wet, cold sensation drew my eyes to the back of my right hand. Less than half an hour after getting syrup in my hair, a bird pooped on my hand. I grabbed a stick and scraped off what I could, then wiped my hand on the grass. After getting inside the fence and letting my younger son go play, I proceeded to clean myself off more thoroughly (with my trusty companion, Purell), only to discover that the splatter had hit my shirt, my jacket, and my purse. I cleaned the best I could, and decided to just deal with it later when I got home.

So then, a few minutes later, I watched my younger son standing in the sandbox, straining his face as he – give yourself five points if you guessed it – pooped. If you recall, I had decided AGAINST bringing the car, with the diaper bag, to the park. Fortunately, my friend had her diaper stuff in her car (just in front of the playground) and let me borrow it. So, we were able to stick around and let the kids actually play at the playground.

The afternoon was forecast to by rainy, so my husband had asked me to walk the dog early. My plan was to come home, change a diaper if necessary, switch strollers, and head out. But, the kids were hungry, so we ate what I hoped would be a quick lunch before heading out (of course, that never really happens). So finally, we got out, and we started walking. My elder son actually held the leash (handing it over if we ever saw a dog or squirrel) for half the walk, and I half-wished I had the camcorder to record the two of them running side by side (the other half realized I had enough on my hands with two kids and a dog). Well, we were about a mile away from home when the droplets started. We sped up. Then finally, about five houses away from our house, the rain started. Now, I know that a little rain never hurt anyone, and normally, I wouldn’t have cared. But the smell of wet dog was not something I really wanted to face, especially since I had neither the time nor the inclination to bathe the dog.

The little one took a nap – in his brother’s bed – and I went to my bedroom to change out of my bird-soiled clothes. Now, despite knowing that I had just seen a particular pink shirt of mine the night before – and discussing it with my husband when we’d had a conversation about how so many of my clothes don’t fit me very well, a conversation that he took quite a surprising bit of interest in – I couldn’t find it. Odd, I thought, but just put on another top, trying to dress somewhat nicely since my husband’s cousin and his family were also going to be at my in-law’s house for dinner that evening. I headed downstairs, where my son and I hung out until my husband woke up an hour or so later.

So as of this point, my mood was still good. Other days, less than that would totally set me off, so I’m not really sure what kept my spirits up. Perhaps it was the fact that it was warm and sunny out, and that I got to enjoy it for as long as it lasted (and then some).

Well, the big one (my husband) woke up, the little one woke up, and the boys and I packed the boys’ suitcase while my husband showered. My firstborn started wavering, saying he didn’t want to sleep over Grandma’s house, so I reassured him that he didn’t have to; that we could just as easily bring the suitcase back, but if he decided when he was there that he wanted to stay, he should have some clothes. And, of course, once we got there, he announced to Grandma that he was sleeping over. Such is the mutability of a child’s mind.

My husband said he’d go back to the car and get the suitcase in a few minutes, which I thought was a little odd (considering we normally let the boys drag it behind them) but then, sometimes he is a little odd. I went in and started feeding the little one dinner (when he walked in, he headed straight for the dining room and climbed right into the high chair). My husband disappeared for a while, and I simply presumed he must have decided to go put gas in the car – while he was out there – and would be back shortly. Finally, my elder son couldn’t stand waiting anymore, and went upstairs to look for him. I kept sitting, starting the little one on his second rotli.

A couple of minutes later, my son runs downstairs calling, “Happy Birthday!” Now, my birthday isn’t for a few weeks, so I don’t think it registered. But I took the paper from his outstretched hands and read the receipt for two tickets for that night’s performance of “Bombay Dreams.” I looked up and saw my husband wearing a suit and green shirt, which was one of the several shirts he had ironed the night before. He sent me upstairs to change, and there I found that he had picked out two outfits for me, including matching shoes and the proper strapless bra. He had packed the garment bag with his clothes the night before (and left them in the attic, where I didn’t even notice it when I went up earlier that morning) and, after I headed off to Tommy’s, he had packed my clothes and shoes.

I got dressed, thrilled that my dress still fit me, and rushed downstairs. The whole drive over, and the whole drive back, I wanted to call up someone, anyone, and tell them. I had completely written off getting to see the show. It was unfortunate, I thought, since it occurred over Spring Break, when babysitting shouldn’t be an issue, but my husband’s work schedule, plus the need to actually do our taxes, and the timing just wasn’t working out.

I rationalized. It’s not like I really get to go to that many shows anyhow, and I could always go to New York sometime to see it, and I just went to see Coldplay, and what I really want to see is Wicked, so it’s all right. And it would have been all right. I’m not a child; I wasn’t going to pout and hold a grudge or insist I get to go no matter what.

So instead, I had the most marvelous evening, sitting fourth row center (!) and having a ton of fun. The lengths that my husband went to, the way he pulled off the surprise, and how he’d thought of every single detail, the fact that my in-laws agreed to watch the kids instead of going out with their friends on a Friday night: wow. (Incidentally, as he was getting dressed before leaving our house, I had asked him about the missing shirt. He smiled a half smile that told me he was up to something. Then he laughed and changed the subject, which confirmed he was up to something. But in my wildest dreams – and maybe that should tell me something about my ambitions to be a writer – I couldn’t figure out what he was up to, and decided he’d tell me when he was ready and I dropped it.)

My husband doesn’t believe in holidays, works most of them, and is too busy to celebrate or shop for anything, even if he were so inclined. He stated that he had effectively lowered the bar for years, so now he can make a simple gesture and it is well received. I suppose that’s true, but I certainly won’t let that diminish how great I feel. Of course, now I have nothing to look forward to on my actual birthday, but really, it’s just a day.