Three?

When I got home from work one day last week, we had about an hour before we had to go to the football field and ‘meet the teams’. More on ‘meet the teams’ below.

During the hour between getting home and leaving to meet the teams, I started a load of laundry and made Olivia change her shirt because the one she’d been wearing had Spaghetti-O stains on it. Apparently, she STILL doesn’t really understand that napkins are for wiping mouths as well as hands.

Sigh.

I also brushed her hair because it had probably been three days since she’d had her hair brushed because it’s summer and no one else seems to think daily hair brushing is necessary. Ahem. After brushing the mess, I braided it because, well, she asked me to.

So…meet the teams…yeah, it’s as fun as you can imagine. The high school and junior high football teams, cross country teams, cheerleaders, marching band, golf team and volleyball teams were there.

The stands were actually pretty full. The parking lot was VERY full. We left with two minutes to spare because Tom had declared earlier in the evening that there wasn’t going to be any problems with parking. He was WRONG.

We perched on the bleachers in the front row and before the dude announcing the athletes even started Olivia asked, “When are we gonna leave?”

I rolled my eyes and whispered to her, “This is your own personal hell, isn’t it?”

She giggled at my use of the word ‘hell.’

Then she asked me again when we could leave.

We met all the teams, the marching band (the whole reason we were there, hi Lyss!!) played three songs.

Then, and only then, was it time to leave.

But because we’re MEAN parents, Tom and I stayed with Olivia in the bleachers and waited for the traffic jam taking place in the parking lot to let up before we finally left.

When we got home, it was about 7:15 but Liv needed dinner. So that happened.

Finally, it was 9:15 and time for bed. Yes, I’m old.

Olivia and I went about our routine and I noticed that the shirt she’d had on for THREE hours was filthy.

I asked her, “What are you, three?”

She laughed and looked down at herself, finding the mashed potatoes she’d dropped down her shirt and into her bra hilarious.

For the rest of the evening (our bedtime routine can sometimes take an hour, thanks 5p- syndrome) she quoted me, saying with a laugh, “What are you, three?”

She probably laughed over that one sentence at least five times.

It’s a good thing her feelings aren’t easily hurt, because damn, sometimes, I’m a really insensitive mother.