turn table

In a borderline comatose sleep stupor, I try to ignore my husband’s poking and a child whispering, “Is she awake?”

“Huh,” I groan. “Is it a school day?” Not even sure of where I am, my mind clumsily searches to recall the day. “Is it Saturday? Sunday? Monday? … Oh my it’s Monday!!” Then, “What time is it?! Are we late??!!!”

I throw off the covers and bolt for the door almost knocking over my already dressed daughter. It’s days like these that I am truly grateful for our little equipping experiment. Not too long ago, not only did I handle all of my five children’s every outright and unspoken needs, I also took on the responsibility of an alarm clock. Why? I don’t know. It’s so much easier if they can wake themselves up.

That said, my boys are less inclined to remember their own alarms, so I often find myself doing a round of “GET OUT OF BED!!” to rouse the sleepers. Not so this morning, my responsible child had already taken care of everything. She had even headed downstairs to cook breakfast.

Hmmm… when did the tables turn?

Last night, the oh so responsible, alarm-clad child kept me in line again.

My ever yappy self overextended a phone meeting with a delightful new friend. Lost in adult conversation, I failed to watch the clock tick, tick, tick to the point where dinner was yet again pushed to the point of no return. And, being a bit unorganized this week, none of us have been on top of our game with regard to menu and responsibility planning. So here we sat. I was tired. The kids had been so amazing. A treat was dolled. Chipotle and In & Out. (The 2-stop approach was my doing. I wanted a tea from Chipotle and burger from I&O. Indulging my own high-maintenance desire. No need to describe my tea order. Let’s just say at one of our favorite spots to dine the check out girl greets me when we walk up with “Hey – It’s Special-Tea”. Ugghh… it will be quite an amazing thing to see if my kids get out of this house half-way normal.)

After enjoying a nice long conversation with my responsible daughter as we waited in the I&O line, we were greeted by the cashier guy. I dutifully handed him my credit card. It wasn’t the card I normally use. One of the kids, while running an errand for me, had forgotten to put my Visa back in my wallet.

“We don’t take Discover.” Cashier guy informed me.

“Well,” I respond digging through my money-less wallet – yes there is a pattern! – “This could be a problem. That’s all I got. … Will you take a check?”

“Let me get the manager.” Cashier guy runs off to get his manager. A line of cars endure our issue. My daughter yet again settles in – embarrassed by her mother.

“Hi,” Manger guy greets me. “Yeah … We don’t take checks. Do you live close by?”

“A stone’s throw away.”

“Will you bring it back to me later tonight?”

“Sure.” I respond. The guy gives me his name. And off we go with our plunder. It might have been slightly awkward, but I’m used to it. And so are my kids, quite frankly.

Much later that night, Jon comes downstairs after saying good night to the kids.

“Do I need to go to In & Out?” he asks.

Oh my word. I had totally forgotten. Thank goodness for the responsible kid who is keeping it together for me… for us.

“Oh yeah. I didn’t have any money. They didn’t take Discover … or checks. I think we owe something like $11 – I don’t know. Just ask the manager … Do you mind?” I was already in pajamas. Although my pajamas didn’t deter me from once again pumping gas into my empty tank this morning… yet again!

“What’s the manager’s name?”

“Ummmmm… Derek?”

He leaves to pay my bill while I bask in the beauty of transferring independence to my kids. I never knew how helpful they could be. Then Jon returns.

“His name is Jason.”

Well there you have it. The cherry on top happened this morning when one of the girls (after having woken everyone up, cooked breakfast and made sure all the backpacks were ready) came into my bathroom to retrieve the brush that I had stolen from her. Yes the tables have turned.

The new question, who’s enabling whom?!

Thanks for walking the road with me.


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