Since Mike is comissioner of his fantasy league, I've decided to abuse my rights and privileges as first lady (and I use the word "first" loosely) by employing his league's e-mail list whenever I need six or more people for a superstitious e-mail chain. You know the ones "Send this on to 10 more people or tragedy, horror and bloodshed will hit you in: 1 minute if you don't send it at all; 5 minutes if you send it to 6 people, 15 minutes if you send it to 9 people; never if you send it to 10 people." On the other hand, if I send these pieces of crap on to the guys in the league, we'll be waiting for THEM to unleash horror and bloodshed upon us. So...nevermind.
Well, this weekend's scarecrow making was cute. We paid $5 and the museum supplied all the material. Which included clothes that gave our scarecrow a "Crazy Bag Lady" guise. Or maybe it was the fact that we had two girls (Cara and her friend) and a four-year-old boy picking the ensemble. My kids had a grand time throwing hay in each others hair, making spectacles of themselves whilst the other children made proper scarecrows in a proper manner. The coordinators gave us donuts and cider afterward, anyway. They either decided to turn a blind eye to Cara and Ryan's shenanigans, or figured animals like mine would just upend the treat table and raid the donuts if they tried to turn them away, so why be judgmental.
The "Touch a Truck" event was pretty much over when we got there. My single-mom friend B (name has been abbreviated for the following reason) only wanted to go if it was called "Touch a Truck Driver." Since the coordinators inexplicably didn't factor that into the program, she took Cara and her daughter to Target after scarecrow making. Ryan and I were left to look at trucks on our own. Considering he didn't want to climb into the front loader or bulldozer, there was really no reason to continue looking at these vehicles that normally wouldn't garner a second glance from me, nevermind a feel-up. It quickly became coffee time.
Ryan and I went to the convenience store for my java, and he expanded his culinary explorations with a bag of Combos. That's pretty wild stuff for him--pretzels and processed cheese in one. He first sniffed them, then licked them, then approved them by actually eating them. Like Fido. It's ridiculous to watch.
From there, we took a walk around the neighborhood to see who was around and what we could do to kill time before dinner. As we passed one house after another with no friends, I tried pointing out things like-- a colorful leaf! and Ryan would crab, "Where's ____?" I'd point out-- a pine cone!, and he'd berate me, "Where's my friend ____?" We ended up at my friend S.'s house. She and her two girls just got back from a night trip. Eureka. Ry had a friend to play with and a snack to eat. S. and I sat to have a chat and about 30 seconds later, there was Ryan, "Can I have an ice pop?" We're like, "It's COLD out! What are you talking about?!?"
I think Joe Walsh wrote a song about this kid, "...Everything all the time." Next year, he's making four scarecrows and touching every truck they can throw at us. Or he'll be circulating superstitious e-mails to save his own rear end.
--Catherine Schetting Salfino