Since I got such a great response to my last post, I decided to share another story about me jacking stuff up. Gather ’round, my friends. It’s a pretty good one…
The very first weekend after I returned from the cruise, Sheepdog and Kid B had to go out of town for a soccer tournament. I was a little jealous that Sheepdog got to go do all of the fun stuff, but decided to shut my trap because I had just returned from my own fun stuff. I focused instead on being happy about sleeping in my own bed; I was totally going to be sleeping spread-eagle in the middle of that king-sized mother.
Friday night was clear and easy, but Saturday was looking to be a doozy of a schedule. The day was starting very early with baseball pictures that I wasn’t even planning to buy, several kids had to be in different places at the same time on multiple instances throughout the day, and I couldn’t even drink about it because I was the only parent within state lines.
In a glorious turn of events at 6:55 on Saturday morning, I received a text.
“Picture Day has been canceled due to impending rain.” Sweet.
An hour and a half later I heard another beep from my phone, “Park is closed today. All games are canceled. Please stay off the fields.” Double sweet! Except for ballet class, which Kid A drives to and from anyway, I had the day off. It was turning out to be a DVR-catching-up-in-my-pajamas kind of day! With Sheepdog and Kid B likely playing soccer in the rain, I definitely got the better end of this deal.
The boys were fine with being relegated to the basement to have their own video game marathon, and the girls went off to pirouette and tour jete.
But by mid-morning Kid E started whining. And he Just. Would. Not. Stop.
I watered and fed him…full belly. I checked for a fever… nothing. Had he pooped? Like clockwork. I offered to play with him, read to him, snuggle with him… un-uh. I could not figure out what was wrong. Technically, he was just being a real pisser.
The only things that remained on our afternoon and evening schedule were parties, and Kid E was supposed to go to one of them. But there was no way in hell-o I was taking this little twit out in the pouring rain just to have him cling to my leg and act all weird and shy, while the other kids climbed the rock wall and played basketball and had normal, birthday party fun. And what a great party favor to share… potential illness from one of the other guests. I decided to text the party mom to tell her we weren’t coming.
I typed her name into my phone. I thought it was a little weird when I was writing the message that her info came up as “Her Older Son‘s Mom.” That’s how I put people in my contacts until I actually know them.
Yes, you are ID’d solely by your kid until one or more of the criteria have been met:
- We have interacted regularly for a while
- More than one of your kids plays with my kid(s)
- I feel comfortable enough with you to say “vagina” and/ or “penis” in our conversations
It’s my system and it works. But it was odd that Party Mom’s ID was so retro… our relationship had surpassed the rules years ago. She and I have discussed spider bites on balls, for goodness’ sake. Her name is in my phone. She earned it.
So I typed in the bail-out message. I felt like an ass for canceling last minute. Then, as if on cue, Kid E started throwing another holy fit for no particular reason, so I felt like I was making the right choice. I took a deep, cleansing breath and typed in two more quick texts.
Party Mom is a friend who always responds to texts right away. Sometimes it’s just a stupid emoticon and other times she writes words, but I always know she saw my message. But this time, I got nothing from her. I chalked it up to her likely being busy with a six-year-old’s birthday party about to start, and I set off to diffuse my own six-year-old time bomb. Regardless of my reasons, I still harbored guilt for being a shitty friend who texted we weren’t coming less than 15 minutes before the start of the party.
An hour and a half later I got this message back:
OMG. OMG. OMG.
The reason the name “Her Older Son‘s Mom” came up is because iOS7 pulled her old phone number as the primary cell number from some GD cloud somewhere, even though I deleted it some two years ago. Shit, I thought, She’s totally pissed at me. And then, Shit, I thought, She passed her old phone down to her daughter. I had canceled last minute (and maybe she got charged by the party people for a kid who didn’t even show) AND I texted “douche” to her 5th grader. I am totally killing it today.
I felt like I was going to throw up, with literal puke in my esophagus.
That message was so cold and formal. It didn’t really sound like her at all, but maybe I had crossed a line. Or… OMG. OMG. OMG. What if her daughter got the text and then showed it to Party Mom’s parents or her in-laws because she was busy running the party and one of them sent the response? Holy hell, I am such a douche.
I immediately texted an apology to Party Mom’s real (I double-checked) cell phone. The puke stayed right there (puts hands around throat in chokehold) all night.
The next morning I got up and checked my phone. Still no response to my apology from Party Mom. I had decided sometime during my totally sleepless night (even being spread-eagle in the middle of the king-sized mother couldn’t help me) that I would go over to her house and apologize in person to her and her daughter because it was the right thing to do. Then I saw that Party Mom “liked” something of mine on Facebook.
Well, that was weird. If she was so (rightfully) pissed at me, why would she “like” anything of mine? My curiosity got the best of me. I sent her another text.
“Good morning. Are you still speaking to me?” She began typing a response immediately.
The puke slowly started to recede. I gave her the short-story recap of my douche-baggery, in all of its glory. And this is what she texted back to me:
I blame it all on iOS 7.
Wish me luck for tomorrow…
Sooooooo I am right to still hold on to the two cell numbers from GA, even though people have to call me long-distance right in front of me:)
For the love of everything, Fan, KEEP YOUR CELL NUMBER. I don’t need to shatter the innocence of any other young children.