The clothes Mason was wearing when the bus brought him home were not the clothes I put on him this morning.
That should have been my first clue that this day was not going to be the one that would break the chaos streak. The Emergency Change of Clothes only sees the light of day in the event of a wardrobe emergency (hence the catchy title). You don’t really want to see them any other time. I mean, if they were cute clothes they’d be neatly folded in the drawer (Fine–you want honesty? They’d be wadded up in the basket of clean laundry in my master bedroom floor. There. I admit it. Happy now?). The reason you designate them the Emergency Change of Clothes and stuff them into a gallon zippy bag at the bottom of the backpack is that you don’t really care if you ever see them again.
But there Mason’s were, enjoying their unanticipated day of freedom, begging the question “why?” First off the bat, I should never wonder why. The answer is never something like “he grew two inches between story time and snack, so we thought we’d see if these were a little bigger,” or “the other kids felt small and insignificant in the light of his cuteness, so we thought we’d put the ugly-clashy outfit on to make them feel better.”
We waved goodbye to Mason’s private busdriver and headed down the driveway. This is traditionally the point at which in inclement weather (which we’ve had more than our fair share of lately) I begin trying to manipulate–I mean convince–Mason into going inside. It also happens coincidentally to be the point at which regardless of the weather Mason says, “No. Lololo.” Which translates to: “No thank you, I do not wish to go inside. Conversely, I would like to sit on the porch swing, where you will sing my favorite swinging song, ‘High and Low,’ forty-three times while you hold me on your lap upside down and let the dog lick my face.”
Now, I happened to have in my pocket a chunk of fresh, homemade bread that I’d been snacking on while I was waiting for the bus. Mason loves bread. So after fourteen refrains of “High and Low” and thirty seconds of doglick, I brought it out and took a bite. Mason slid off my lap and eyed the bait–I mean, bread.
“Bledt?”
“You want a bite?”
“Mmm-hmm!”
It wasn’t a very big piece of bread–enough for two Mason-sized bites. So soon he was asking for more.
“All gone. You want to go inside and have more bread?”
“Okay. Bledt. Bye Jake.”
Brilliant—my ploy had worked! Warm, dry house–here we come! With Mason tailing me, I opened the front door and hurried to babyproof the living room—bedroom doors shut, nightlights removed from the hallway, babygates closed. I heard the front door slam shut and turned around to see….nuttin’.
I’d been duped! I threw open the front door to catch a glimpse of Mason’s jacket disappearing around the front of the house. He had a fifteen foot headstart–I could easily overtake him.
Now, I’ve told you about the evil barbed demon stickers that grow on our property. Because of these incidious weapons of the plant world, outdoor shoes are verboten on the carpet. Which means that when I dashed into the hallway to remove the nightlight and pull the bedroom doors shut, I kicked off my shoes before stepping onto the carpet. In my haste to eat away at Mason’s headstart, I didn’t take the time to put them back on.
Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except that fifteen feet was enough of a lead to land Mason onto the driveway—the caliche driveway (for those of you unfamiliar with caliche, it’s a Spanish term for “great big white rocks that cause crazybad pain when stepped on barefoot”)–before I caught up with him. I held my breath and managed three long strides in an effort to catch him with a minimum of the crazybad pain thing.
Just as I stepped back onto the friendly, smooth surface of the parking pad, the 14 year-old appeared, bearing houseshoes. It may be the thought that counts, but let me tell you–the thought doesn’t stop the bleeding.
Anyway, I wrangled him into the house–which thankfully was already babyproofed–and let him crawl into the highchair while I got him more bread, of which he would ultimately eat only two more bites. But before he got tired of the bread, I pulled out his school correspondence folder to solve the mystery of the Emergency Change of Clothes.
The note read simply: “Mason’s diaper leaked through to his pants. We also had to change his shirt, because he was playing in the toilet.”
You would think that would really freak me out. But you have to remember that this is the same child who licked the tire while I was unlocking the truck. And the same child who has licked every basket handle in SuperTorture. And WailMart. I figure he’s tasted every germ known to the Western world and then some. The whole thing is kinda liberating in a way.
So there I sat, me and the note, which I am supposed to sign and return in his folder….
“Dear Mrs. B, You are probably looking for the note about why Mason had to wear his Emergency Change of Clothes. It is tucked safely away in his keepsake box, where it will wait until such time that I need an instant source of embarrassment. Thank you for loving my son despite his superability to disappear out from under your nose in an instant, despite the fact that he is 4 and not yet potty trained, and despite his nasty spitting habit. I am so thankful that you are his teacher, and that you have yet resorted to duct tape as a means of containment. I will continue to pray for your sanity each morning when I drop him off, as I’m sure you do for mine when you send him home. Yours truly, Mason’s Mommy.”
Tags: baby gates, babyproofing, bread, bus, caliche, Chaos, diaper, dog lick, driveway, duct tape, Emergency change of clothes, germs, note, playing in the toilet, porch swing, SuperTorture, teacher, WailMart, wardrobe, weather
