May, a love/hate relationship

I haven't taken part in this blog in what seems like months.  Given the fact that I'm up to my eyeballs in the shit storm of activity that is the month of May, I realize that I actually have no concept of time.   If I did, this past week wouldn't have lasted for nineteen days.

May.  What can I say about May?  Let's see.  It's the time of my year that consists of watching all of the 'heavy hitter' parents don their business casual best and show up to proudly watch their offspring collect various awards at school.  Now, I'm one of those parents because my youngest son is an academic overachiever, but the awards are usually at eight in the morning in the school cafeteria (which I see every day at work from one to six thirty), so I can barely be bothered to fill my eyebrows in properly, much less get dolled up.   Plus, it's my gym time, and given my expanding waistline, it's not like I can take extreme pleasure in skipping a sweat session.   But I'm always there, taking pictures,clapping and shouting for my boy, because I truly am so proud of him that I border on intolerable.  The rest of the time is spent trying to make sure The Husband doesn't make fun of other parents or their children too loudly.  Not that he's ever wrong in his observation, but damn… I have to see them every day.  He can afford to not give a shit.  I have to deal with the backlash.

May is also the month where all of my child's extracurricular hard work is displayed.  Recital time.   He is a great piano player and they have two performances a year.  The one in December is absolutely painful, all holiday music.  One by one, every tragically ungifted child murders various seasonal tunes and stumbles for two and a half minutes to get through a sixty second piece.  His teacher is smart enough to pepper in the good ones at strategic points of the program, so that just when you're ready to put a bullet in your head, one of them brings you back from the brink.  I can be smug because The Kid doesn't suck.

This year, The Kid is opening the show.   The theme is Broadway this spring, and if you know The Kid, you can imagine how pumped up he got about this.  Oh, yes.  He has chosen to play 'America' from West Side Story.  His only lament is that he will not be able to sing along, because he can perform the entire song in the most authentic Puerto Rican accent you've ever heard.  Bless him, he marches to the beat of his own drum.   I should also mention that he almost gives me a heart attack every year at this time.  He is currently downstairs having his last lesson before the show tomorrow.  I hear him screwing up every five seconds, yelling 'WAIT' and starting over… it doesn't matter that he's been playing it perfectly for two months because he always falls apart the week before the show, thus making me feel like puking the entire morning of the recital.   Then he pulls a fast one, gets up there, busts it out without a hitch and ends with a flourish of dramatic bowing to the crowd.   Every year, I tell you.  It's just cruel.

Then there is dance recital the very end of May.  I cannot speculate as to how it will go since it's our first trip to the rodeo, but it's not hard to imagine that it will be the funniest two hours of the year.  Pure entertainment, because really, none of them are any good.   The trade off is that no kids are missing class this time of year, so the dance studio waiting area is filled with obnoxious siblings who are screaming, throwing toys, and jumping off furniture while their  idiot mothers sit around and pretend to not notice because they are too busy discussing Vera Bradley bags.  In my mind, I am screaming, "CONTROL YOUR SAVAGE SPAWN, BITCHES, OR ALL OF YOU GET THE HOSE!", as I whip one out from behind my back 'Law and Order' style and aim the power nozzle at the loudest snotty kid with the mom wearing the most unflattering jeans.  Instead, I have to settle for giving them all venomous looks as I peer at them from behind my book with a raised eyebrow.  They can all feel the glare burning a hole in their forehead but are too chicken to meet my gaze.    They have no shame, I tell you.

It also happens to be children's birthday party season.  I have three in two weeks, which I will probably be attending alone with The Kid.  I typically refer to myself as a 'Party Widow', since it's really not worth trying to make The Husband attend.  He has an aversion to groups of kids, parents and social situations in general.  It doesn't matter that I do, as well,  because someone has to take the bullet and it's always me. Thankfully, these parties are for the children of close friends, so I can enjoy my surroundings (with wine) much more than when I have to attend a school chum party… which is always ripe with awkward small talk, shuffling of feet and me pretending to take important calls on the cell phone (always resulting in us having to leave a bit early due to an imaginary crisis situation).  But I suck it up, because I'm a wonderful mother.  The Kid better fucking remember all of this sacrifice later on when I'm a senior citizen.

Since my older son has given me so much drama and grief over the past few months, I am forcing him to attend recitals this year.  None of his sarcastic commentary or inappropriate clothing choices will deter me from dragging his skinny ass along.  It's the very least he deserves, really.  Two Sundays this month, his only consistent days off of work, will be spent with his parents and my mother as we watch his younger brother cultivate his artistic side.  He will huff, roll his eyes, loudly proclaim that he wishes he was either drunk or sleeping and be a total jerk about it… but I won't break.  None of his crappy behavior will help his cause, because he'll even have to go eat celebratory dinners afterwards.  All this family time is a special kind of torture for him that I'm thrilled to dole out, since he has aged me ten years in six weeks.   I'm pleased to say that in a month of craziness, this is my silver lining.   Hey, guy…. what goes around, comes around.