It’s Always My Fault

Posted: November 14, 2012 in couch, fault, home, Uncategorized

I keep forgetting that it always my fault. I need to hold a better check on that one. I always forget.

My son forgot his monologue. It lay somewhere in the hall of the church. When he got I the car, I asked. He told me what I needed to hear to put the car In Drive and head across town.
So I head a moderately more than average speed, not zooming but very quickly across town. This theatre is is I. The middle of downtown. A few lefts and rights. A bump or two over railroad tracks and there the theatre looms. It’s in a Masonic temple. Now that’s another blog waiting to happen.

In order to pick up this thespian of a son, I first had to prepare the other son for the evening. Feed and bath the boy. Homework and dog walk. Dishes done and dried and put up. Perfect timing. Five minutes to the church, ten minutes to the theatre and waa laa! Fifteen minutes to spare. By my clock, that is truly right on time.

All parked and settled, the boy went in. I facebooked a picture letting my adoring friends and fans know that I was outside the theatre. I even took a picture. As the immortal memory was about to upload, a frantic boy came running to my truck.
Chapstick! Does the boy need Chapstick? A swallow of water to loosen the vocal chords up a notch? Why no, he has done and gone lost his monologue.

The harps begin to play. The flash back scene begins in slow motion.
“Do you have everything?” Say it with a mouth full of marbles to simulate slow motion flash back.

A bottle full of rage, a bummed out kid and a bedtime quickly approaching, I zoomed towards the church.
Call your mother, I said. Don’t stop until she picks up.
I try it myself but I don’t really care to drive and talk. I don’t really care to use the phone much at all. If I call, I have a reason. That’s one of my faults also. My communication is terrible. I did stop trying. I admit it. Every once I. Awhile I forget and just start talk about anything, then I remember why I stopped this communication thing. It usually takes less than a minute or two before I’ve said something that reminds her of something that I did at one time and that cross referenced with another thing I might or might not have said at a certain date. The. I forget what the hell I was talking about. Someone storms off into the bedroom and sit with a stupid look on my face. So you don’t want a baked potato for dinner then.

Zooming casually as one can do in a chur h parking lot, she stood with said monologue in hand. Wanting me to pull into the side driveway instead of just coming over quickly to the car. A few words of encouragement to the boy and reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault, I receive the eye of stink.
“You were the minutes late!”
A mental FU because I actually care about what crosses the children’s ears, I begin the zooming procedures.
“See buddy, it wash fault all along. Now lets get you back to the theatre. You’ll only be fifteen minutes late. Use all this energy and put it into your performance.”

That’s all I really said. As much as I try, I can’t communicate well with my son either. Funny thing is that we have so much in common. I think there’s something in the way.
It’s not me. But it’s my fault.


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