She’s killing me, I tell ya. My little Cake Boss.
She is never, NEVER ready on time. Have I said never yet?
This morning was no different. I plead with her to be ready at 8:45 am, five minutes earlier because it is pouring outside. Raindrops the size of watermelons. And that means the world’s supply of crazed mothers and grandparents in their M1A1 battle tanks in desert camouflage will be assaulting the three or four dropoff places at school – all at 8:55 am. Our Marines should be embarrassed these mothers can assault the beach head on time – every time. But unlike the Marines, its every mom for herself. Damn the others. 🙂
As usual, my son is ready. He is always ready. Sometimes he forgets things like his homework – but he is always ready.
Then I begin to yell at her. “Brooke! What are you doing?? Get in the car!”
Then she procrastinates even more… She’ll do the exact opposite – like my ex does even today. She’ll run to the bathroom or decide to wear a different pair of socks or whatever. I yell at her even more as I will have to drive like a NASCAR driver just to get near the school that is a bazillion miles away. Tokyo’s closer.
It’s 8:48 am and Jack is waiting in the car as usual…for his sister. Reluctantly, I haul her 100 ton backpack to the car. It must be filled with Walmart’s entire inventory of nail polish. Well, there are books in there at least.
She finally runs to the car – in her bare feet – in the rainwater left by the watermelon-sized raindrops – while holding her socks, shoes and… hairbrush.
We get to the school as the bell rings. Jack jumps out…but not Brooke. Of course not.
Brooke suddenly remembers her mama didn’t sign an assignment sheet that was due yesterday. Crazed Marines (aka as mothers) are honking at me…while my Little Cake Boss struggles to put her Converse on while searching for that paper. I sign it. She finally jumps out but her shoes are still not completely on. Criminy.
I get home.
I see something pink and white on the back seat under her hair brush she carried into the car instead of her backpack I lugged for her.
It’s the Text Princess’ iPhone.
They page her. I wait in the hallway. She comes. I hand her the phone. “Papa! You didn’t have to bring it-aaah…” in her trade-mark Valley-girl way of talking… but she knows she’d have a heart attack without it. It’s like the little notes girls used to pass around in class when I was her age.
Watch this… The first thing she’s gonna do is lecture me when she gets picked up…after she’s the last one to leave the school, of course, texting as she walks.