Thursday, April 1, 2010

Texting Aspirations

I sent my husband the follow text yesterday:

Seems you should have married an organizational secretary with a taxi medallion who lives only to serve others.

This was after a testy phone conversation during which we were both driving kids around: he to go pick up one son from a friend's house where he was enjoying what I thought was an afternoon with no practice of any kind. I was going from dropping off one son at his baseball game, another at soccer practice 25 minutes away, only to return to the baseball field where big fat rain drops sent all adults to shelter and all kids out to field to dance (hey they are nine and ten years old). He was accusing me of being unorganized, I was accusing him of . . . well, of . . . I don't know. Maybe over-scheduling. I was just sick and tired of driving around.

I admit it. I am not the most organized person in the world. And I never will be. I am my father's daughter, he of aspirations to organization that include making lists of lists, he the son of the woman who organized by hiding things and had an encyclopedic memory of every piece of ephemera she possessed. I am organized, just in my own fashion. It works most, but not all, of the time.

I did not have baseball practice on my calendar for my middle son and so I let him go hang out with a friend. My husband, who is one of the coaches the baseball team, insisted that we talked about the practice that morning. He has not learned after eighteen years of marriage that I don't process any verbal instructions when I am not fully awake and uncaffeinated. And by the way if it's not on my calendar it simply does not exist.

So he rushed to retrieve that son and then back to practice while I shuttled the others to their events. Then the rain drops came. The baseball game, which has progressed through the first inning, came to a temporary halt. The overly optimistic umpires and coaches called for a 10 minute wait, while I stood around impatiently, getting soaked. When they finally came to the realization that the rain was not going to stop any time soon, the game was officially ended. At another location, the practice that my husband had made such an effort to get to was mostly rained out. I think they hit a few balls in the cage then stood around waiting for the weather to stop too. Meanwhile, 20 minutes away my older son was at soccer practice. I had a mental image of him playing in the rain, while his backpack with dry sweatshirt and phone sat on a wet field getting soaked. Turns out that was a premonition.

We all got back home, where everyone was hungry, wet and cold and wanting someone to make dinner for them, including me. I didn't have making dinner on my calendar. So it didn't exist.