Notes on a Tuesday

I spent most of the morning getting prepared for Jack's Southern Hot Lunch at school. I was in charge of fried chicken (buying it, not making it, thank goodness), green beans, mac and cheese and banana pudding. Normally I don't serve banana pudding after Labor Day, but this was a special occasion.

You would be proud of my organizational zest and zeal (especially those of you who know how unorganized I am most days). I called Hardee's yesterday to make sure they started serving chicken before noon and then later drove by Hardee's to see if they took credit cards in case I didn't have enough cash on hand to pay for the chicken (they did) (only wish I'd remembered to ask about that on the phone). This morning, while the mac and cheese was cooking and the beans were heating, I found a plastic bin to carry the serving platters and utensils in, and threw in some extra cups and spoons, just in case. I went out to the garage and got the coolers to carry the food and loaded them in the van.

At 10:45 I zipped over to Hardee's to pick up the chicken, only to learn it would take thirty minutes. No problem. Zipped back home. Got everything packed up in a neat and organized manner. Back to Hardee's to get the chicken. At school I went to the teacher's lounge to pick up the cart I knew was there because I'd asked the librarian this morning at drop-off if I could use a shelving cart to carry in my stuff (an idea that had come to me in the middle of the night) and she told me about the big cart in the teacher's lounge.

You're waiting for it, aren't you? The big mess up, the moment where I trip and launch banana pudding all over the principal? Didn't happen. Lunch was served on time, in an orderly fashion. The kids liked it. The teacher liked it. I sat with Jack and had a good conversation with his seatmates about books. I made it out in time to pick up Will from kindergarten.

Quite frankly, I am very impressed with myself. And totally, completely, wholeheartedly exhausted. Next time, I'm winging it.

***

The other day, Will watched the movie "Balto," about an Alaskan sled dog who saves a village by racing to get medicine and bringing it back just in the nick of time. Will has already listened to the audiobook, which we have, dozens of times, and that night he asked my husband to read him the book, which we also have. After my husband finished reading, Will looked up at him and asked, "What do you think Travis will do?" (Travis being our dog.)

"What do you mean, 'What will Travis do'?" my husband asked him.

"When he grows up?"

Boy, I don't know, but I sure hope Trav doesn't scootch across the floor on his bottom during his job interviews the way he enjoys doing around the house. Why does he do that, anyway? No, don't tell me. Let it remain one of life's little mysteries.

(But don't you love Will's question?)

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This morning Will woke up covered in blue marker. He claims to have no idea how it happened. Face, hands, legs--and his white school tee shirt he changed into sometime in the middle of the night, the one he's supposed to wear at his music recital on Friday.

***

I really can't top that.