The Content of Kryptonite

paperThis week was the last week of the trimester, i.e. “Hell Week” for moms.

It’s the week when your daughter says at 10:02 p.m. one night, “Oh, by the way, I’ve got Solo & Ensemble Music Festival tomorrow after school for orchestra class and I need an accompanist and an official judges form printed out on salmon-colored paper from,” followed by a son who says, “Oh yeah, that reminds me. I have a school choir concert tomorrow night and I still can’t find my Sunday shoes and I need some for the concert, so can you get me some? Oh, and some slacks too while you’re out because the ones I have are total dork floods.”

He was right.

I’ve been having Urkel flashbacks at church lately.

Yeah, I could go all tough love and say, “Your lack of planning is not my emergency,” and let my kids’ grades tank in the final hour. But then they’ll never go away to college and I’ll never be able to live the life I’ve created on Pinterest.

So, I put on my Supermom suit the next day and set out to save the world one enabled child at a time.

My first act of heroism was to insist my daughter pack a skirt and dress shoes to change into for her recital because, despite popular juvenile opinion, it’s inappropriate to perform at a classical recital in skinny jeans and Converse hi tops. Then I flew into town and found some slacks and wingtips for the boy, but was unable to secure an accompanist for my daughter. My mother, the brilliant musical sight-reader, was unable to swoop in and rescue her posterity this time.

How dare she have a life?

Oh well.

We’d just have to take a hit on that front.

Actually, we ended up taking a hit on many fronts that day. After forgetting to get salmon-colored paper in town, I innovatively jimmy-rigged a two-sided judge form by glue-sticking together some bright orange (close enough) papers I found in the recycle bin. When I frantically ran into the school five minutes late for the recital, due to a fight with the printer over low ink levels, I handed the ratty form to my daughter.

She looked at it with disgust and said, “It’s the wrong color and way white trash.”

I replied, “If the shoe fits, sweetie.”

Actually, the shoe didn’t fit because in my efforts to buy my growth-spurting teenage son some Sunday shoes that would last beyond Easter, apparently I overshot a bit. As my son was walking onto the risers to perform at his choir concert that night, the kid behind him accidentally snagged the shoe overage and flat-tired him. He stumbled up the risers with a clang and a bang.

I did try to save them.

And while I like to fancy myself superhuman, the truth is I don’t think my efforts even qualify as regular human most of the time. As I watched my daughter play beautifully on the cello, even without an accompanist, I noticed her Converse hi tops sticking out from under her long skirt and wondered if Kryptonite is just a big wad of salmon-colored paper.

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