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Sparkle (3)
I read in the newspaper the other day that money, addiction and sex are the main causes for divorce. But I think the reporter overlooked what must be the biggest cause: Parent’s Night. There isn’t a couple I know who doesn’t break into hives or involuntary twitching at the mention of having to sit through two hours of assemblies and parent/teacher conferences. I have seen solid unions reduced to ruins after only an hour of enduring a fifth-grade teacher conference. They ought to consider adding something in the vows about committing to Parent’s Night.
My husband and I have been married for many years now and we have reached an understanding: If neither of us is unable to escape attending Parent’s Night, then the other must change their plans and also attend Parent’s Night. It’s simply too much to ask one partner to endure alone. Just another example of the great sacrifices required to maintain a healthy and long-lasting marriage. But it wasn’t always this way.
When my oldest son was in the third grade and my youngest son was in the first grade, I arrived home from work to find the yellow astro-bright flyer from the elementary school announcing “Don’t Miss Parent’s Night Next Tuesday Night.” Since my husband had been conveniently otherwise engaged for the last couple of Parent Night affairs, I decided that perhaps a different strategy was in order this time around. I slipped the notice into my purse and waited until Tuesday night.
When I arrived home from work Tuesday evening and found my hubby settled in front of the television, I asked, “Hi, Hon, do you have any plans tonight?”
“Nope. I am planning on parking my butt in this chair and watching the game.”
“Oh. Well sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but tonight is Parent’s Night. We have to be at the school in an hour.” You would have thought that I had announced I was pregnant by his reaction. Slowly shock turned into suspicion and his eyes narrowed.
“I don’t remember seeing a flyer come home for Parent’s Night…”
“Really? I’m sure it is around here somewhere. No matter. It’s tonight and I’m so glad you don’t have any plans so that we can go together!” I called out as I hurried from the room. My husband always refers to these types of incidents as Conniving Female Manipulation. I prefer to call it Effective Strategic Planning (ESP).
We gathered up the two boys and piled in the car, both my husband and me sulking grumpily. Since we had waited until the last possible minute to leave the house, we were forced to park six blocks from the school, which did little to improve our moods. Then bad went to worse when we entered the double doors and were greeted by the Principal. Did I mention that the Principal and I had had a little spat recently? It was nothing really: a simple questioning of the logic behind the creation of the school bus route. I still can’t believe she hung up the phone on me. I mean, I thought Principals were supposed to have a lot of patience and encourage debate? Anyhow, she must have been nursing a grudge because she led us to what had to be the worst seats in the house. I didn’t even know the fire codes allowed seating behind the boiler. My husband started to mumble something about Karma and what goes around comes around, but I cut him off reminding him, “Hey, I don’t want to hear a word about the Principal. Do I need remind you of a certain nurse to whom you gave a speeding ticket just two days before I went into labor?”
My husband glared. “You can’t use that excuse again. It’s not fair. You’ve reminded me a million times about that. Are you going to hold that against me forever? I mean, how could I have known she was going to be your nurse?”
He did have a point. And I did kind of overuse that guilt. But come on, the woman delayed my epidural! That is simply inhumane. I ought to at least get ten years free use of guilt on the pain factor alone, regardless of the absence of malicious intent on the part of my husband.
The one saving grace of our boiler seating was the convenience to the exit. When all the teachers for all six grades and all the administrators finished ‘sharing’ their
