3:50 p.m. on weekdays is a hectic time in our house. Julia and I are both just arriving home. Each day I navigate her strewn obstacle course as gingerly as possible, a backpack here, lunchbox there. I sidestepped all of her this and thats. I try not to complain because I know she will put everything in its place before long (she's a neatnik and a naturally orderly type). Today (a Tuesday) I notice her Friday Folder on the ground. As the name implies, it comes home on Friday with her one homework assignment for the week and returns Monday with her completed assignment.Due to the MLK holiday, Tuesday is Monday. I picked it up and looked inside. Sure enough her homework assignment from Friday as well as a book order and check were still inside. I questioned why it came back home, did she forget to turn it in. "I guess I forgot to turn it in, mom. It's not really that important," she tried to convince me. "Actually, Julia," I began, "It is kind of important. You want Mrs. V.V. to know you completed your homework on time." Her face is instantly sad and disappointed in me all at the same time. She follows up, "Well, actually the most important thing is Jesus. There's nothing more important than Jesus."
Really, where am I supposed to go with that?
A friend and I were recently talking about a mutual friend whose grown daughter used what she referred to as the "God Card." I liked that. Julia definitely played the God card on me.
I never posted this on Tuesday so I might as well add in a related story from yesterday. I sent her for lunch with one of her most favorite Arabic dishes, curry and rice. I reminded her in the morning to make sure she asks a lunch mom to help her close the lid on her thermos after lunch so she doesn't have curry and rice sloshing all over her lunchbox. Fast forward to 3:50 p.m. She's unpacking her backpack and pulling out all of her schoolwork. There are always a few pieces of artwork that she makes in her free time for her dad and I. She gets all that done and sets the lunchbox in the middle of the kitchen floor. She unzips it to reveal that she did not, in fact, ask anyone to help her close up the thermos. Curry (did I mention how staining curry is?) and rice are sloshing and sliding everywhere. She apologizes. I quietly pick it up off the floor and carry it to the kitchen sink to get started. I don't say anything to her. I know she feels bad enough, but I am not happy. She walks up to me at the sink and says, "Mom you just have to open this note I made for you and dad." I dry my hand and take the tiny, folded up note. It reads: Mom and Dad I love you.
Trumped again.
As she sits down to have an after school snack, I am still scrubbing away. She feels compelled to add one more thing, "I am really sorry, mom. And anyways you remember from the other day." He voice goes up and octave and it becomes sing songy, "That's not the most important thing."
She is right, of course.
