I squeezed into the back of the primary school gym along with a hundred other parents. Scanning faces of the first graders sitting criss-cross style on the floor, I looked for my daughter. All the kids dressed in blue jeans and white tops made the job of finding my child more challenging; however, FringeKid is usually the one who pops up yelling to me with hands cupped around her mouth and then begins her wild waves that send shocking ripples throughout her little body.
The entire crowd can usually tell which child belongs to me.
I’ve had this date written on my calendar for a month. Each week I’ve reminded FringeMan to keep this afternoon free. As I sat sweating, more from my own stupidity than the heat of the crowd, I realized that we were enduring a first grade folk dance performance that excluded my child’s class.
I knew FringeMan would have a hard time forgiving me for this one.
When the supervising teacher invited the parents onto the gym floor to do the chicken dance, we gathered our feathers, slipped out the side door and clucked straight to the office.
Apparently my daughter’s class performs tomorrow.
I felt FringeMan’s eyes boring deep holes into the side of my face. No words from him is not a good sign.
“At least we have the evening to brush up on the chicken dance.” I said.
I don’t know HOW this mistake happened! Seriously. I remember holding the paper in my hand and marking the date on my calendar.
I think FringeMan will forgive me before he dies.