21 Jul Lazy House-Whisperers. (Not BUSY. Lazy. Dammit.)
Big Daughter’s school called today. Somebody (ie. her parents) needs to come and get her report card. Because the school had Parent-Teacher interviews last week to give out the mid year reports and her (loser) parents didn’t go.
Alright, alright, let’s be honest, its not ‘her parents’ who are losers, its just her mother. The Hot Man is in the fulltime income earner role and I’m supposed to be the fulltime childcare giver and house-whisperer. Which means, if there are report cards to be collected and teachers to be spoken to, then I’m the one who’s supposed to get em.
But I don’t want to. I’ve been a mother for nineteen years to an assortment of children, and a school teacher for ten. So I’ve been to a plethora of PT interviews. And I don’t want to go to anymore of them. Dammit.
My theory is, I don’t need to go to Big Daughter’s interviews. She’s doing well in school. She just scored 120% on her English exam, how’s that for being an overachiever? These children read tons of books and that more than anything guarantees that they’re getting a good education. We have scintillating and intellectually stimulating conversations about everything from male seahorses that have babies to the intersection of feminism, culture and religion. I don’t have any questions for Big Daughter’s teachers, and they all said wonderful things about her in the last report card.
So I don’t see why I have to put on real clothes that haven’t been slept in, brush my hair, drive all the way over there, find parking (when I suck at parking), get out and walk all the way to the office (when I suck at walking), talk to people (when I suck at talking to people) and listen to them tell me my kid is doing good.
Okay, the truth is, yes, I’m lazy.
I told Big Daughter to just get the report card herself and bring it home. But she said the school wouldn’t allow it. She explained, “Everybody’s parents already came to get their kids reports. I’m the only one who didn’t get mine.” She sighed. “I made excuses for you.”
“I told them you can’t come to the interviews because you’re a famous author and you,” she waves her hands nonchalantly, “have places to go, things to do, people to meet.”
I am flabbergasted. And horrified. “No!! You didn’t!? That makes me sound like a horrible stuck-up person. You can’t tell lies like that about me! I’m not famous and I have nowhere to go and no people to meet. What total rubbish.”
“I know. But I can’t tell them you’re in bed still in your sleep clothes at lunchtime, reading a book. Sitting in your room all day, eating.”
“Doing research,” I correct her. “Reading a book is very important research for a writer. Broadens her skills and
shit stuff. And I’m not ‘just sitting’, I’m thinking and planning plot outlines. It’s work. Truly.” I stamp my foot. “Dammit Big Daughter, I already know you’ve done fabulous in school this term and I’m proud of you and I don’t need to get dressed properly just so I can get the physical evidence of your awesome work. Just tell them your mother is lazy. ”
It’s her turn to be horrified. “No! I don’t want them to think bad things about you.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “Oh, but it’s okay for them to think I’m a selfish ego maniac with a crazy busy schedule filled with social outings and jet-setter meetings with jet-setter friends, and I don’t care enough about my child to pick up her report card?”
Great. Just great.
You know what I’m doing later today, don’t you? That’s right. Slinking into Big Daughter’s school with my humblest, most apologetic face on where I will then
grovel ask very nicely for her report card.