I Ran Away From Home, But They Tracked Me Down

I just returned from the homeschool convention, otherwise known as “The Revenge Of The Cart People.” I’ve never seen more wheels assembled under one roof. Evidently, if you want to attend a homeschool convention, you must bring with you a cart. And not just any cart. These are those four wheeled crates that come with a foldaway handle. And you can accessorize your cart. Some were just your boring black models. Others had lids, so that a tired convention attendee can just plop herself down and take a breather in the middle of the already crowded aisle. Some were covered in pretty floral fabrics, and had all sorts of side pockets to stash the conventioneer’s crap stuff. And all were filled to the rim with convention booty. I found myself eyeballing some of the fancier carts with envy.

The word you might be looking for is “covet.”

I chose not to bring my cart. I carried a basic black backpack. A cart just slows me down. The homeschool convention is the only arena that I can practice my brisk walk, which I had perfected in college. With three children in tow at home, it becomes the brisk drag, as Cailey is a notorious dawdler. So, unfettered by offspring, I’m quite rapid. And I would just be hitting my full potential, when without fail, I would trip over a cart. Or be sideswiped by a cart. And even hit head-on by a cart. And to make matters worse, my trusty crocs failed me. They inexplicably morphed into bright pink clown shoes and tripped me up every 15 steps or so. Even with no cart in sight. I spent an inordinate amount of time on the carpet. You might get the wrong idea and think I had been drinking. But I hadn’t. At least not yet.

A highlight of the convention, was getting to room with two of Fiddledaddy’s sisters, Trish and Cathy. I totally hit the jackpot when I married Fiddledaddy. Not only did I get a really great guy, but I also got sisters that I adore. They are some of my best friends.

So, on Friday I got a call from Fiddledaddy. “How is it going?” “Great, I’ve got another seminar coming up and then a lunch break.” “How long is your lunch break?” “About two hours or so, why?” “Well, I’m in the driveway and getting ready to bring the kids to the hotel to go swimming!”

Silence.

Weakly, I ask, “Really? But, you don’t know how to get here.” “Oh yes, I’ve got the address right here.” And then he repeated the name of the hoopty ploopty hotel where I was staying

Drats. I wrote “Motel 6” on the pad of paper I left for him with instructions. I guess after 10 years of marriage he has some of my tricks figured out. Darn it all to heck.

About an hour later my entourage arrived. It was wonderful to see them. I hadn’t even been gone 24 hours, and I missed them. They stayed and swam for a couple of hours. There was one tense moment when I was intently watching Cailey floundering in the deep end, and I thought I was going to have to jump in, wearing my favorite convention clothes. But, that’s just the way she swims. It makes me a nervous wreck. She dons her orange goggles, sinks like a stone, comes up for a gasp of air, sinks again, comes up, gasps, sinks, and repeats the whole thing about 10 more times. That’s her way of portraying a mermaid. I age 10 years every time I see her do this. And then after a couple of hours, I help shower everyone off, and shove them out the door send them on their way. There was much screaming and crying while being strapped into the van. Fiddedaddy included. Not me, I skipped back into the hotel. And as soon as I cleared the bellboys, I tripped on my crocs. Perfect.

Later that night I was sitting around with the sisters giggling about the events of the day, while painting our toenails red, and drinking Bacardi Wine Coolers. That was the second and third most out of character behavior that I exhibited while conventioning. The first was that I didn’t even bring my retainer to wear at night.

The word you’re looking for is “rebel.”

Well, when you have moms sitting around drinking wine, the topic is going to take a somber turn at some point. We started talking about our babies and how fast they are growing up, and how we really should cherish this time. Even though they are driving us insane. And then I retold the story for the third or millionth time about that guest speaker at my old MOPS group who said that she would give up everything she has just to have her kids back as toddlers. We were all getting misty. When my cell phone rang.

I answer, and hear sobbing on the other end. “Mommy?” “Yes, Emme, how did you get my number?” “You gave it to me,” through more sobs. At this point I hear Jensen screaming in the background, and Cailey crying hysterically. Aunt Cathy and Aunt Trish can hear it too and begin laughing uproariously. Emme continues, “Mommy, please hurry up and come home.” “Emme, where’s Daddy?” More laughter from the Aunts. Eventually I was able to get Fiddledaddy on the phone, and he said he just wanted me to enjoy what he was enduring at home. Alone. Without me.

Welcome to my world, mister. Now buck up and get them to bed.

Later, he called me back when everyone was unconscious to let me know that all was well on the home front. Thankfully no one had bled, and all were accounted for.

Music to my ears.

I’m already planning ahead to next years convention, and my suitcase isn’t even unpacked. And next year I’m going to take my own rolling cart, all right. But mine is going to be equipped with a horn and side air bags. And spikes. Lest anyone get to close to my wine coolers, positioned in the outside pockets of my colorful cart for easy access.

(Note: Before anybody goes and gets all offended, please know that I am a serious and committed homeschool mom. The convention blessed my socks off. I came home feeling empowered, uplifted, and confident about our next homeschooling year. And yes, I also came home with red toenails.)

This post was awarded the “Perfect Post” by Owlhaven. Thank you!