It has been a recurring refrain in our house.
I go to a hotel. Maybe in March.
Several months ago, we drove past a local hotel, a Courtyard by Marriott. We had stayed at this hotel during summer break in 2009 because we were worried that David would not tolerate a full-blown vacation. Instead, we opted for a stay-cation with a convenient plan B—go home.
David recognized that hotel from almost three years ago and asked if he could stay there again. He remembered the pool. He remembered the elevators. I remembered the conveniently located Starbucks’ cart in the lobby after a terrible night’s sleep.
So I told David that we could stay there again—maybe in March. I was thinking of the possibility of spending a night there over the boys’ spring break, but I was honestly more hoping that in the intervening months, David would forget about it. (I know—I can hear you laughing from here.)
Last night, he repeated his proclamation for the umpteenth time.
I go to a hotel. Maybe in March.
But then, he ripped the February label off of the giant calendar that hangs on our front door and replaced it with a shamrock-studded March label.
Once again, he repeated his mantra but this time with a twist.
I go to a hotel—on the ONETH of the month.
The oneth of the month? Oh, the oneth of the month. Today is March 1st, the oneth of the month and David had expected that we would be relaxing by the pool right about now.
The oneth of the month makes perfect sense when you think about it. David is a pretty clever boy for a myriad of reasons.
Oneth, he invented a more sensible system of ordinal numbers and twoth, he found a way to get what he wanted as we have made a reservation to stay at that very same hotel later this month.
Andrew does not have choir practice tonight. That is what I told David this morning, which was followed by a twinge of guilt as I watched David bravely try to blink back his tears, blue eyes glistening.
No choir practice means that David does not get to go along, ride the elevator a few times and pause in the sanctuary to reenact last Sunday’s service to the best of his ability. It is one of the highlights of his week.
So, I told a fib. Andrew does have practice, but also has math and science homework, not to mention a nagging cough that would certainly make singing challenging.
If I had told David the truth, he would have expected me to take him to church without Andrew. I know, because I have had to complete that exercise before.
Please tell me that it was just a little white lie said to protect David, to keep him flexible and able to tolerate a change in schedule--much like when you tell someone that you love their hideous new haircut in an effort to protect their feelings.
Please tell me that Dante’s Inferno didn’t graphically describe one of the concentric circles of hell reserved especially for weary mothers who have lied to their children with the express purpose of preventing a church-going experience. A place where poetic justice dictates that I will be forced to spend eternity, sleep deprived, racing to church ten minutes behind schedule, praying not to receive a speeding ticket while wondering whether or not I managed to find two shoes that actually match, having perpetually forgotten my steaming mug of coffee on the kitchen counter.
Oh wait, no. I am not paraphrasing a passage from Dante’s masterpiece, but rather describing our family experience almost every Sunday morning. And that part is all fact.
The botanical garden is one of David's favorite places. We ride the tram, visit the model railroad garden, literally stop and smell the flowers.
We visited the botanical garden last week while David has his break from school. In February, there is not a tram ride, no model railroad chugging around the bend in the track, no blooming flowers.
There is simply a hint of green, the promise of renewal.
As I was pulling out of the driveway, I noticed an errant snowflake. It wasn’t supposed to snow today, but by the time I got to the grocery store it was snowing so hard that I could barely see two car lengths ahead of me.
The flakes were big and heavy and it didn’t take long until the grass was covered in a fresh blanket of snow.
I was doing the mental calculations as I raced through the grocery store. Have I left enough time to get the 11 items on my list and get back home to pack David’s snack before his bus arrives? If David’s bus is too late, we will never make it to speech therapy. Should I just go ahead and cancel David’s appointment?
When I arrived back home, I stopped the car on the driveway as I waited for the garage door to open. I had already turned off my windshield wipers and the snow was collecting on my window. I turned off the ignition and sat for a moment.
I wanted the snow to cover my windows. I wanted to feel like I was in a warm cocoon. I am not sure how long I sat there in the car before I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket.
It was like I had been underwater, holding my breath and all of the sudden I needed to come up to the surface to get air. Suddenly, my mind was racing.
I have frozen food in my sack that I need to take downstairs to the freezer.
David’s bus will be here soon.
I need to call Michael back.
The phone is ringing.
I forgot to take Andrew’s popcorn out of the microwave before I left.
I have been playing with an iPhone photo sharing app and recently took this picture, which incidentally is the picture that appeared on my phone as it rang.
One of the features of the app allows you to focus on one object in the photo and blur everything around it. I wish that I had an app that would allow me to do that for my life.
I have recently been somewhat consumed by thoughts of financial difficulties, job stresses, David issues. I have a job. Any financial issues that we may face pale in comparison to some, so I feel guilty with these worries.
Why can’t I just focus on what is important and blur everything else around the edges?
Why can’t I eliminate all the noise?
Please ignore any reference that the candle picture may have to light/coming out of the darkness. It is Friday night and, as always this time of week, I am tired. Rest assured that any metaphorical meanings or proximity to profundity are not expressly intended and are purely accidental.
Tomorrow will be a better day.
