By
MargePonders
6 hours ago
It ‘s the no-longer-searingly-hot season in Texas. They call this winter, but not us. We’re from the northeast and we call this breathable season “Reprieve.” “Look, it’s Reprieve out today,” we say on those days, “Thank goodness.”
Reprieve brings balmy weather that triggers odd urges to plant flowers in November. On Reprieve mornings, I dance a Shakespearean meadow twirl down the driveway to get the newspapers. “Ahhhh….it was good to move to Texas,” I think as I swirl inside, smirking at the frigidity reported back East.
Alas, not every Reprieve day starts with a lilting gossamer homage to spring-like weather. Some Reprieve days begin cold then swing 25 degrees warmer in two short hours. Yep, dawn in the 50s followed by lunch in the swim-worthy 70s.
Don’t ask me where this whiplash weather comes from. I think Mr. Heat Miser and Mr. Snow Miser are fighting over the thermostat behind the one cloud floating across our Texas blue sky.
I’m not complaining about Reprieve, mind you. Reprieve whiplash days are welcomed and enjoyed. In fact, we have a special get-ready-for-school ritual for cold to hot Reprieve days. It’s called, “Where Is Your Sweatshirt and Hurry.”
This three part ritual is worthy of anthropological study. I’ll spare you the research.
In part one, we decide whether it is too cold for short sleeves at school. This occurs during breakfast. The children hop on and off the breakfast table faster than corn kernels in hot oil to check the temperature outside. So much for eating so you can think.
We reach consensus on whether it is a sweatshirt day during part two. This phase starts with cries of “Hey,” “Sit down,” “Where is everyone?” and “Yes, coffee, please.” Consensus emerges from a cry of “Get your sweatshirt or else.” Rarely do I add “because I said so,” even though this all-weather statement may be deployed at any time.
The arduous final phase begins when each child scatters to do something other than find a sweatshirt. Someone with stamina, hawk-like vision, psychic powers and a big voice must find three school-worthy sweatershirts and the daily quota of six matching sneakers. Me. I volunteer. Every time.
What makes this final phase exciting is that the sweatshirts are never where we left them. Why? Because we didn’t leave them there or anywhere else memorable. Sweatshirts might be in the house, the car, the garage, outside or, heaven forbid, at a friend’s house. They will not, under any circumstances, be in the closet on a hook.
I know some of you are thinking, why don’t you put them out the night before?
Please stop talking to my mother.
Besides, I tried that. Our sweatshirts move. They get up and walk under beds or into garden bushes. Some have homing instincts that cause them to run back to our child’s chair at school. It’s as if the sweatshirts are running some kind of clothing conspiracy to drive me off the edge.
And I know who started all this: the socks. For years, our socks have run a conspiracy to remain single. How can there be no one matching pair in the drawer after buying 10,000 identical socks? Don’t even start me on the shoes and where those two get off to when unsupervised.
It gets worse. Our sweatshirts and socks think it’s fun to hide until a day and time arrives when they are completely unneeded. It’s 90 degrees outside and, whaddyaknow, the sweatshirts are sitting on the sofa having a nice conversation with a well-matched sock couple.
If that’s not enough, this year brought a new wrinkle to our traditional Reprieve sweatshirt hunts. Our zero-teen must have a sweatshirt with the right look. Add the school’s dress code and it is nearly impossible to send our oldest out well-clothed for a cool Reprieve morning. Ok, her standards aren’t very high. The sweatshirt can’t be too small, have fur or a broken zipper. Still, why can’t she put the Barney decal on the inside and wear the thing from the car to the building and all recess?
Thanks to our Reprieve sweatshirt rituals, I come to believe that each household has unique laws of physics that govern the actions of inanimate objects found therein. Not only do our sweatshirts hide, but our laundry won’t leave the dryer before completing all six anti-wrinkle buzz cycles and resting for two or three days. Then there’s my husband sitting in his chair after his long commute. Scientists should study how to get that inanimate object to move.
A clever person would find an easy way to restore Reprieve mornings to their lilting, frolic-filled state. Let me know when you do. Until then, here’s my plan. I am going to make disposable sweatshirts out of cereal boxes, plastic bags and duct tape on cold Reprieve mornings. I can always find those items, although leaves will work in a pinch. After the consensus sweatshirt edict emerges, I’ll wrap the children to, I mean, in their chairs.
Of course, I’ll release them in time to twirl to the car for a ride to school. After all, it’s Reprieve and it couldn’t be a nicer day to go outside. Wear your sweatshirt.
Marge Ponders
P.S. My son wore one sweatshirt to school today, and returned with three in his backpack. The sweatshirts must be holding a convention here. I’m watching the socks.
Copyright November 2009
www.margeponders.blogspot.com
margeponders@gmail.com
tel: 936-273-5489
Submit Your Ideas »
See All Story Ideas »
