Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Oh. My. God.

I think I just sent the boy off to school with a bag of garbage.

It is a smallish bag meant for the bin outside (it's garbage collection day).

It smells terribly.

It has a poop diaper in it and a bag of cigarette butts.

It is not normal garbage.

It is garbage that would shame even the heartiest of souls.

It is garbage you would never, ever want your child's teacher to see.

Brandon, unfortunately, was having a bit of a tantrum before the bus came, wouldn't put his coat and boots on, wouldn't cooperate whatsoever, so I was frazzled, hurrying to get him suited up and out the door, bag of garbage in hand, which I was going to put in the bin, situated curbside -- right where we wait for the bus.

I remember that my son ceased with his tantrum soon as he saw the bus come round the bend. I remember that he melted my heart with a trembly "I love you, Mommy" and a kiss goodbye. I remember slipping his backpack onto his back -- something I don't normally do, as he has to sit in the bus seat.

Why did I do that? So that his tiny hands would be free to carry the garbage?

I remember nothing else as to the whereabouts of the bag of garbage. The stinking, shameful bag of garbage that no child should venture near, let alone hold.

It is not in the bin. It is not in the house. It is not on the front step, or the driveway.

I have concluded, much to my horror, that the bag of garbage is indeed clutched in my boy's clean, innocent hands.

My boy is going to open the bag, my friends, and there before the eyes and nostrils of his fellow kindergartners, instead of a special baked treat for the whole class, or perhaps a magical dancing bear, or a wombat named Fred, or a host of any other delightful possibilities, my son will present a bag of garbage, its contents culled from the depths of Hell.

Courtesy of Brandon's stupid, preoccupied, not-right-in-the-head mommy.


E-mail to Brandon's teacher --

Subject: Re: Report Card Conference

January 22 at 2:45 is perfect, Jim.

Oh, and please don't think me insane or anything, but...Did Brandon come to class today with a stinking bag of garbage?

If so, I apologize a thousand times.

It was meant for the garbage bin, which is situated curbside near the bus stop. The bus came early, and I had the bag in my hands as I was getting Brandon on the bus, and...That's the last I remember of the bag. It is not in the bin, nor anywhere in or near the house.

If Brandon did not come to class with a bag of garbage today, then please forget you ever read this. ;-)

Reply from Brandon's teacher --

HAHA I was laughing out loud as I read that. :)
I did not notice the bag of trash at all today. Maybe it is in his backpack??

Take care,


FINAL UPDATE: The whereabouts of the bag of garbage remains a mystery.


At 6:34 PM, Blogger Granny said...

Trust by now you've looked in his backpack. I'd love to hear the end of the story.

I have been known to attempt to put my toaster in the fridge so I totally understand.

Once I couldn't remember how to open my car door and another time how to open the microwave.

Very strange.

At 4:14 AM, Blogger Rabbitch said...

I was so dying laughing.

Uh, I found my book in the freezer once.

At 7:41 PM, Anonymous =tamar said...

It may have ended up in the bus, but not in the back pack, and been discarded by the bus driver.

At 8:54 PM, Anonymous aphid said...

I have broken my toe when attempting to make a dramatic entrance by throwing a pair of heavy doors open.

I have hit myself on the head with a frying pan to see if it would hurt (as you already know).

I have shaved my neck.

When I was young, I used to think that gay dudes would have sex by whipping it out and having a "swordfight".

Don't feel bad.

At 9:05 AM, Blogger Ms. Lori said...

I'm embarrassed by my actions, ladies. I'm blaming perimenopause.

But at least I haven't broken a toe by making a dramatic entrance or anything like that...HAHA! Aphid, you crack me up.

At 10:50 AM, Anonymous twoblueday said...

Garbage in, garbage out?

As the shrink said to the protagonist in the song "Hyperactive:: "Tell me about your childhood."

At 9:20 AM, Blogger Lunacy said...

I laughed so hard I actually cried. Thank you for this one!!!


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