Ittybits & Pieces: The show goes on
Should I tell him? The boy has missed the first installment of a month-long, biweekly schedule of rehearsals leading up to a community theatre extravaganza, the date of which has yet to be fully determined. And it’s my fault. As I skimmed the lengthy missive that’s main attraction was a full-page, fine print cast list, looking only for the boy’s name and the name of the part he would play, i didn’t think to read the part — stuck somewhere in the beginning — that clearly stated: “rehearsal begins TONIGHT.”
Tonight had come and gone. I couldn’t get it back. It was now morning and I was waiting for the coffee to drip into my cup, head and heart aching. That. Sinking. Feeling. He won’t be pleased. I wonder how many other parents glossed over the details and went on with their evenings: Watching Netflix, making dinner, sleeping ever-so-soundly.
I imagine the number was in the single digits, possibly even just a single, solitary parent: Me. I don’t want to tell him. He has friends in the production. When he gets to school, they’ll ask him where he was? Why didn’t he show?
I’m picturing it now: He will cock his head. His mouth will constrict. His face will turn pink and then red.
He will furrow his brow and think of me. He will Seethe with prepubescent rage.
A “Why didn’t you ...” accusation teetering on the edge of an emotional explosion.
I could pretend I didn’t know.
I could remind him that ultimately, he is the most responsible for keeping track of his own schedule. Now that he’s 12.
But it seems disingenuous, especially since his emails filter through mine and routinely get lost in the maze that is the electronic filing system. How can I expect him to keep up when I clearly can’t?
I start every day headed in multiple directions. It generally astounds me to arrive at any destination on time, although I rarely get through a day with perfect attendance.
“I got all the way to flute lessons before I realized it was tap dance today.”
“Uh ...Mom? What year are you in. … I take the trumpet.”
I’m only exaggerating slightly. But I feel that I am drowning in a sea of multicolor handouts with thousands of words in small print, not to mention scrolls and scrolls of electronic messages that require more attention than I am capable of giving. And let’s not forget the unconscious need to refresh my social media browser every six seconds to keep track of which elected officials are engaging in what seems akin to pouring gasoline over their careers and lighting them on fire.
Have I mentioned how many cat videos are out there, just begging me to click on them?
None of these things are valid excuses. Of course, I will tell him. He will make the face I don’t want to see, and then he will go silent.
He will blame me for the rest of the day or until lunch (if there’s pizza).
But it won’t be the end of the world. The show will go on.
I just hope I don’t miss it.