Forgiveness is typically my forte.
High-school boyfriends’ dalliances? Forgiven.
My beloved great-grandmother’s racism based in ignorance? Forgiven.
My father’s secret life? Forgiven.
But today…today’s transpiration is testing the depth of my ability to readily rationalize. Since I can’t speak it aloud (twin little pitchers have big ears), blog about it I shall.
On the next to the last day of school, Sarah and a classmate were to have a first-time playgroup. Perhaps it’s because she and her brother have had so few — much less individually — she talked about it all night the night before. She talked about it excitedly all morning over breakfast. Her brother and I planned our Mommy-Son activities for after school while Sarah and Boy X were to have their special time.
Well, as it turns out, the next to the last day of school included a year-end presentation program…with parents invited, for song, dance, poetry and general merriment. Upon the production’s conclusion, we looked everywhere for Boy X and/or his parent(s). No sign. We went home and left a message on Boy X’s family’s machine. Nothing. We waited and waited. Finally, our nuclear family went for a somewhat delayed after-program ice cream. The whole way there, while we were there, and the whole way back, Sarah (not unlike her mother’s M.O.) was creating rationalizing scenarios by which the lack of communication and the break-down of the plan could be excused.
On the last day of school, after we returned home, we got a phone call from Boy X. Luckily, Sarah answered and she lit up like a summer firefly with twice the bounce. The phones were passed to the moms, and Mrs. X explained the confusion (which surely I agreed with, with the chaos characterizing the last days of school), and we made a plan to have the kids reconvene today…as they were going to be out of town early this week.
Rerun the preceding week’s build-up and enthusiasm, this time regaling the whole family with her “dream” from the night before Playdate-Eve, wherein she and Boy X and his Mom X all played superheroes together. Re-don the beloved pink dress. Pinch on those new clip-on earrings (“They’re S’s, Mom! For Sarah!) from the Dollar Store. Make the early morning base touch at 9:15. Uh oh. The machine again. (Adult cynicism already had me concerned.) 11:00am: Sarah insists they may not have gotten the message, and wants to call again. With the warning not to leave a message if the recording comes on, I allow it. Again at 11:30. 12. 12:30. You get the pathetic and heartwrenching picture.
Finally, at 3:30, feeling almost sinful for keeping my children housebound and TV watching on a stunningly gorgeous day, I left a second, upbeat sounding message (oh I can be an actress when the occasion merits…) saying we were going to head to the park, but to please — please — leave us a message.
Thought Sarah would burst into tears when she saw the big flashing “0” on our machine upon our return. Thought I might, too.
She and her brother plopped on the couches to watch “Shrek 3” on-demand, and I just went went to put a Hershey’s kiss in her mouth. (Please don’t condemn me for doing the “chocolate makes it all better” attempt.) What did she do? She pointed to Darren for me to give him one, too. Amidst her day’s disappointment, at play, at the park’s nature center, all day long, her brother’s been by her side…intuitively “getting it.” Maybe there’s something to this twin telepathy thing after all….
Cross-posted from Twinfatuation, June 18th