On Friday, my sister and brother and I were e-chatting about whether we should call a family member out over her excessive – and excessively gaggy – Facebook posts.
“I’ll do it!” I cheerfully volunteered. “I can fly around on a broomstick with the best of ’em.”
Then, over the weekend, I was miffed TO. THE. EXTREME. about the seating chart at a big party Hubby and the Wee Lass and I attended. The hostess thought it would be “fun” to seat the Wee Lass with girls who are 10 years older than she, I guess because they have soooooo much in common? Like the chasm that exists between second graders and seniors isn’t the size of roughly 25 Grand Canyons?
I spent the entire first hour of the party basically flipping out, my eyes glued to the Wee Lass’s table to see if anyone was chatting with her or even acknowledging her existence.
They weren’t. Shocker.
“A blistering – blistering! – email is on its way first thing Monday morning,” I hissed to Hubby, who was mortified on my behalf.
“Please don’t do that,” he said. “I’m begging you not to do that.”
Then, to cap off my Angry Weekend, I proceeded to almost trash my lovely birthday dinner out with Hubby and the Wee Lass. We were discussing the fact that my brother now lives in Seattle. And since he’s come to us for several holidays, I mentioned that I thought we should head his way soon. You know: Return the favor, and see a part of the country I’ve been dying to check out.
“Mommy, I really don’t want to fly eight hours,” said the Wee Lass.
“I know,” I replied. “That is a really long flight. Maybe we should make a fun road trip out it.”
Since I’m just now re-learning how to drive, you can imagine how Hubby – the family chauffeur – cottoned to that suggestion. Because as the crow flies, Seattle is…what? About 10 gazillion miles from New Jersey???
“No way,” he said. “You’re kidding, right?”
Bear in mind that the entire convo was theoretical; we have no immediate plans to go to Seattle, and haven’t even been talking about it lately.
But I got so, so, so upset that my dinner-mates didn’t automatically say, “Yay, Seattle!” that I seriously considered walking out of the restaurant before the entrées arrived.
“Mommy, are you mad?” the Wee Lass asked.
“No,” I lied. And then I gave myself a stern (silent, bien sur) talking-to. Because everything I was getting my knickers in a twist about all weekend was nothing. None of it mattered. And guess what? After those 17-year-olds at the party ignored the Wee Lass for the first hour, they ended up falling deeply in love with her for the rest of the party and she had a GREAT time.
The moral of this story: I don’t want to be Bitch Mommy, or Fly Off The Handle Mommy, or Blistering E-Mail Mommy.
I had one of those. It wasn’t good.