Saving the task for the last minute, we wrapped the teachers' gifts this morning before school. Little did I know, my children have become expert gift-wrappers in the last weeks, as they have wrapped gifts for me at my parents' house.
Tyler is especially an expert at the triangle corners. I told him his dad didn't know how to fold those until he married me and I taught him.
Tyler alwas delights in knowing he is ahead of anyone else's learning curve.
(He can swallow pills. I couldn't when I was five. Or even ten. This incentive makes the pill go down even easier.)
They wrapped and folded and taped with so much heartbreaking care.
As we were walking in the door to school, someone bumped into Tuck and knocked his gift for Mrs. G into the gray sludgy snow. The gold, sparkling bow popped off and landed several inches away.
He was frozen. He picked it up so gingerly, while I swept in with, "It's okay, buddy. We can fix it. We can fix it."
We affixed his bow atop the sparkling stripes of the paper, and I wiped away the gray slush from the corners of the package, and my white coat took one for the team as we made our repairs.
I sent him in the door with little harm done. Man, that was a close one.
When I picked them up this afternoon, Tuck toted a ZipLoc bag of amazingness from his Winter Party.
(I'd like to say again that I long for the days of Room Mothers, two or three adults who are designated to plan and attend the party, as opposed to this current day and age when all the parents are invited - and inherently expected - to attend. Maybe I'm the only one who gets overstimulated by a room filled with sugar and loud. But I know I'm not the only one with two children with parties at conflicting times. Oh, for the days in the late eighties, when it was the job of three zealous mothers to provide cupcakes and a game.)
As Tuck managed his backpack, coat, and ZipLoc amazingness, the bag spilled, sending m&ms and skittles across the sidewalk.
Again, I swept in with the ever-ready, "It's okay, buddy. We can fix it. We can fix it."
We grabbed at the m&ms on the sidewalk, and we refilled his bag, plus or minus some snowy dirt. All was saved.
I can't say there's really a neat and tidy moral to this story. Sometimes, all I have is a story.
p.s. Tuck was running a fever last night, but I choose to believe that's a separate story entirely, not remotely related to eating handfuls of candy off the ground.