No, you say. You seem reasonably conscientious, not a taker of illegal drugs at this late date in middle age. (34- that’s middle aged now, right? Maybe early 2/3, with a little luck and some cardio. Note to self: drink more pomegranate juice.)
But yeah, I did. And not like day camp, “Oh shoot it’s 5:30 and I ought to have been there at 5:15…” No, this was forgetting on a grander scale.
I actually didn’t really forget him so much as I didn’t pick him up on the right day. I had grand plans for the Sunday pick-up. His bio-dad and I were going to meet there, so his dad could see the camp for the first time, then all go back to my parent’s house for J’s delayed 12th birthday celebration. That would have made sense, right? Drop a kid off on a Sunday, pick him up two weeks later on a Sunday. But no. Whoops.
So on Friday, I take Dan to Dulles so he can go do his European tour thing with his band. After we dropped him, around 4, the little kids are asleep in their carseats, we’re almost out of gas, and I had a little too much Red Bull after lunch, making me really want to find a gas station pronto. But I was resisting getting off the highway, trying to avoid the infamous DC rush hour.
Just as my fun game of “When Will I Run Out of Gas/Pee My Pants in the Car” was getting really interesting, my cell phone rang.
“Mrs. Maines, this is so and so, from Camp (Insert fictitious Name of Your Choice here).” My heart, of course, stopped. “It’s not an emergency,” he hastened to assure me. “We just wanted to know when you’d be picking J up.”
I relax. “About 2 on Sunday.”
Loooooooooooooong silence. Then, “Um. Yes. Well, Today’s actually pick-up day. Can you get here by 6?”
Let’s see. It’s 5 o’clock in DC rush hour, and I have to get off the highway to get gas and pee before I spontaneously combust, then magically float over the beach traffic to get to Annapolis by 6. Man.
“Of course!” I reply, then hang up to cry and berate myself.
After a quick pit stop, we were on a mission. It quickly became apparent that there was no way in heck I would make it before the day camp closed at 6. Then, inspiration struck: my birth Grandmother lives 15 minutes or so from the camp. I called information, dialed her number, and explained the situation…you know, that I forgot my kid.
Luckily, she’s not judgey. “I’ll get him, but I’m not sure they’re just going to hand him over,” she said dubiously. But they did. Despite the papers I had to sign, carefully detailing who was allowed to claim him, turns out three hours late on pick up day they’re not too picky. After I called to explain the situation, another problem occurred to me. If they told J a grandma would be picking him up, he’d expect my mom or MIL, not his more unfamiliar Great-grandma whom he rarely sees.
So I call the camp back. “If it seems like he doesn’t really recognize her, don’t be alarmed…it really is the right person…” I explained, sounding highly unconvincing and possibly criminal to my own ears.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” the counselor replied, anxious to go home after a summer of other’s progeny.
When I finally got to her house at 7, (Of course I got lost, what with having no directions) he was in a tree reading a book. He’s so my kid.
“Sorry I forgot you,” I said.
“Oh, it’s OK. Grandmother sent me a letter saying she’d see me after you picked me up on Sunday, so I knew that you would.”
I pause to consider, then shrug. Someone needs to teach that child how to use the phone.
|
Twitter links powered by Tweet This v1.8.3, a WordPress plugin for Twitter.
Comments (20)