You check your calendar and realize there is yet another evening concert tonight. You . . .
(a) stride into the child’s room to make sure the concert apparel is clean and pressed, shoes are shined, and that the after-school snack you’re planning doesn’t include cheese, which can produce a phlegmy sound in the vocal cords. Oop, there’s just time to run out for flowers!
(b) sigh a little and adjust your schedule so everyone can get there on time. Maybe bring some work with you.
(c) barrel through the stages of grief as quickly as you can, then set to work figuring out why it’s definitely your husband’s turn to represent.
(d) contact your lawyer. This just isn’t right. This just isn’t right.
As your child leaves for school, you notice that his shoes are pretty beat up. You . . .
(a) are relieved, because it’s been nearly four months since his feet have been measured and fitted by your on-call orthopedist. Optimal brain function is only possible when the body is cared for from top to toe.
(b) dig out a spare pair that are not perfect, but they’ll get the kid through.
(c) hope the gas station sells flip flops.
(d) growl, “Well, we got plenty paper bags. Here’s a marker; draw yourself a swoosh.”
You are packing a lunch for your kid and you make sure it . . .
(a) includes a lean protein, two servings of veg and one of fruit (local, obvs), a grain (because kids will be kids!), and . . . let’s see, it’s Thursday, so that means the extra treat will be . . . cauliflower-based! Fun! Now, which mason jar conveys the most love?
(b) is reasonably balanced, won’t trigger anyone’s allergies, and may even get eaten.
(c) has some food in it, none of it used.
(d) is heavy enough to appear to contain food, for plausible deniability.
You are informed there will be three field trips next week, each one requiring a special lunch and extra snacks, early drop-off and late pick-up time, a sheaf of permission slips and release forms, and of course a check. And money for the gift shop. You . . .
(a) sprint to the phone to volunteer as chaperone. You always wanted to see how they sort industrial grit, and now you get to do it alongside a large group of middle schoolers! Win win!
(b) are just grateful someone else is organizing these things. It’s nice, really, that kids get to break out of the routine.
(c) shout, “FINE” and tear a check from the checkbook so violently that you accidentally clock the kid in the jaw, and when she stops crying, she admits that she didn’t want to go anyway because her best friends Braeydinn and Peyytun are being weird, so you decide to just skip it and get donuts together.
(d) take the kid by the hand and ask him if he really wants to go, grasping his hand tighter and tighter until he begs you to let go, I mean let him stay home and help you get caught up on laundry and really just be useful to you in any way you need, really.
You scroll ahead in your calendar to find out when the last day of school is, anyway. You . . .
(a) sit right down and write a thank-you note to the superintendent for all his hard work and wise and prudent choices over the year. Those guys just don’t get enough credit, you know? Six figure income, you say? That doesn’t seem like enough.
(b) sigh a little bit, but you have to be grateful there is such a thing as school. Some places don’t have school.
(c) massage your temples, breathe like your therapist wants you to breathe, and work toward a place of acceptance, by which you mean “only soft screaming.”
(d) decide that, as of this minute, you are homeschooling, dammit, and it is summer.
Come on, what do you want from my life? A+. You all get an A+. All right?