Here's how I thought it would go in my head:
Mark wakes up, excited, and dresses quickly for the big day. He eats, brushes his teeth, and agrees to the traditional first-day-of-school portrait. Then, I drop him off at school, wish him good luck, and drive off to work, a proud, tiny tear spilling down my cheek as I realize my baby's now a high schooler.
Well, part of that scenario came true--I was crying as I drove away, but not for sentimental reasons.
The morning started out well, with a palpable feeling of excitement in the air. Mark did a great job getting up and dressed. I'm pretty sure he even ate breakfast (but who knows, I was in the shower).
He brushed his hair and teeth, and I marvelled at how smoothly the day was going. I should've known better than to tempt fate...
"You're dressed?" I called out to Mark.
"Yes, Mom," he automatically replied.
"You've got everything in your bag?"
"Yes, Mom," he repeated, sighing.
I eyed him skeptically.
"I said yes. Geez!" He stomped his feet and rolled his eyes.
"OK," I said, grabbing my coffee mug. I also grabbed my smart phone, waved it at him, and said, "Let's go take that photo!"
Now, Mark is well-versed in the photo routine. I've taken one every single year of his entire school career. I prep him beforehand--he knows to hold up the amount of fingers corresponding to his new grade--and remind him that the faster he smiles, the faster we'll be done.
But somewhere between the reminders and the front door, Mark's attitude changes. I think he's afraid some kid will walk by and see his mom taking photos, and it's too much for him to bear. The threat of becoming a social outcast kicks in, so Mark instantly rebels.
"Smile!" I said, and this is what I got:
"Seriously, Mark, just smile, and let's get this over with," I said, gritting my teeth. This is what I got:
"I've got all day," I told him. "Seriously, I do--I can wait here All. Day. Long."
He paused for a minute, then scowled. "You're gonna make me late!" he hissed.
"You're making yourself late," I reminded him. "Smile, and we can leave."
And this is what I finally settled for:
Immediately after, my angry child ran for the car, slamming the door before I could utter another word. We drove in silence toward the school, until Mark suddenly gasped and said, "Oh man, I forgot my drum sticks!"
I may or may not have shot back, "I asked if you had EVERYTHING." (Let's go with the response that makes me a nicer mom.)
Silence returned until I hit the traffic jam in front of campus.
"Take your diabetes supplies to the nurse," I told Mark, gesturing toward the back seat.
"I will, when I get out," he said.
I helpfully pointed out that now was a good time to get the supplies. He just as helpfully ignored me.
Finally, done with the attitude and the long line of cars, I pulled over. Mark got out and started to slam the door again.
"Get your diabetes supplies!" I yelled, this time more angry than helpful.
Mark debated slightly, then returned, making a big show of it. He sighed again, then climbed across the console, smacking me with his backpack. But before I could say anything, a sharp pain shot into my thigh, and I instinctively started screaming.
I am not kidding you--SCREAMING. As in, bloody murder. As in, my leg was suddenly on fire and I instinctively responded with an intense primal shrieking so loud, an entire group of kids walking by stared in disbelief.
"STOP!" I shrieked. "STOP! YOU'RE BURNING ME!"
Because in addition to smacking me, Mark also smacked my coffee mug, scalding me with my own hot coffee. (And now I had to start the day without caffeine--he literally added insult to injury!)
My leg was on fire, but Mark didn't stop--he stood there, confused by the shrieking, not sure what was happening, continuing to spill coffee onto me.
"GET OUT!" I shrieked in an unnatural voice 100 octaves higher than my normal voice. "GET OUT OF THE CAR! YOU'RE BURNING ME! GET OOOOOOOUUUTTTTT!"
I couldn't help myself--I'm usually far more patient, or at least, far less vocal. But my skin was ON FIRE, tears were streaming down my face, and pain was shooting throughout my leg. And to make matters worse, I couldn't even drive away. There was nowhere to go--ahead of me was a long crowd of cars, stopped at the red light. I couldn't even screech onto the street, or race home to change out of my now-sopping wet jeans.
And so I cried. I cried as I drove away from a confused Mark, I cried as I pulled into the traffic, I cried as I held the jeans away from my tingling skin. There was no place to hide from the kids walking to school, or from the parents dropping off their kids. I wasn't sobbing discreetly, gently, or quietly, and I realized someone might mistake me for an overly-dramatic mom reacting to her baby's first day of high school.
Which technically, I was, if you think about it. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but at this point, did it really matter? Not to my charred skin or damaged pride.
Or to Mark's social standing. The irony is that Mark wouldn't take a photo because he didn't want to embarrass himself in front of his peers. And now here he was, first day of class, before the whole school, as his wild, screaming banshee of a mom shrieked at him to get out of the car.
He wanted to make an impression on his first day, and boy, did he ever!
Unfortunately, it may not have been quite the impression he was hoping for.
And it was certainly not the first day memory I was hoping for, either.
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