Last night's unearthed document was a letter from Adelaide's teachers to parents. In it, there was a request for the name and address of whichever family member you most want to exact revenge upon, because the person you volunteer was about to get a homework assignment from some random teacher in Iowa. (Note: Not the exact wording used in the letter. I'm translating its message into the Language of Truth.)
Had I seen this paper anywhere close to the time it was first sent home, I would have been able to ask various family members if they pretty pretty please wouldn't mind receiving a "flat child" (don't ask) in the mail from our daughter, then carting this thing around different places in their area, taking pictures with it, and sending the pictures and a letter describing the "flat child's" vacation back to us. (See? HOMEWORK.) Because I only saw this last night and the name and address of an out-of-state family member was due TODAY, I wasn't able to call around and grovel and beg; instead I did what you do when you don't know what to do: I scribbled down my mom's name and address.
I probably should have felt a little more guilty about this, but instead laughed and burbled with relief: I didn't have to do anything, wheeeee! Please keep in mind it is March which means I am SO DONE with school projects and forcing myself to care about our children's education, something I will have to hide during this week's Parent Teacher Conferences. Also remember Adelaide came home two days ago and announced she had to pick a pre-1950 historical figure to research and create a costume for, and her choice, from which she would not be moved, was Tutankhamun. My grand plans for her metamorphosis into King Tut so far involve copious amounts of black eyeliner and that is all, because they did not cover ancient Egyptian royalty in either the Psychology or in the Spanish I studied in college. Could I interest her in Carl Jung? Perhaps Quetzalcoatl?
|Step One: Spray paint her face gold. Step Two: Pierce and insert guages into her ears. Step Three: This is an impossible costume.|
I soothed my twinging conscience over volunteering my mother for this project by telling myself that it's good for my mom to have periodic reminders as to why this stage in her life- that of kids out of the house, grandkids coming for visits- is so wonderful; not that she seems to need reminding- she frequently tells my sisters and me that this time in her life is SO GREAT, grandchildren are so much easier than actual children! I would feel resentful of this, but you see, I was there for my childhood and adolescence, and I think Kelli and Steph would agree that Mom has earned these years. (Hey, Kelli, remember that time we went down to the old highway and I taught you how to play "Chicken" with passing cars and, to break up the tedium of risking our lives in front of motorized vehicles, I coaxed you into tight-fitting drainage tunnels? Remember how a neighbor ratted on us and told Mom, whose face turned a color I can only describe as "puce"? Good times.)
Really, though, Adelaide and her class are lucky- God only knows what kind of photos my mom will send back! They could be of local landmarks, like... um... the statue of a sad angel outside of mom's school? Or they could just as likely be of whatever injuries have come into her office that day; Mom seems to forget that not everyone appreciates a good infected open sore as much as she does. It's like Russian Roulette: The Pus Edition. You are welcome, Iowa schools.