Sometimes I feel for my daughter, Emma. She has a lot to put up with. She has two moms who are writers. And having two creative types as moms isn’t all that easy.
Emma is in her first high school play, Big Fish. She goes to rehearsal every night and this is hell week. (Theatre people know what I mean by that.) Last night she texted me and asked me to bring her dinner because rehearsal was going to run very late.
Being the great moms we are, we made her a pastrami and provolone sandwich (her favorite) and stuffed another Ziploc baggie with marshmallows and Swedish Fish.
Then the fun began.
We drove to the theatre wearing wigs. I wore an orange bob and Saxon wore a neon blue wig with pony tails. Emma was waiting for the food delivery outside the theatre door. We didn’t stop the car, though. As I whipped the car past her, I threw the sandwich out my window and Saxon threw the marshmallows out her window. Then we laughed gleefully and sped away, our neon hair blowing in the wind.
Well, we had a good time with it. Emma, not so much.
Five minutes later, predictably, my phone rang.
Emma: Mom, you’re so weird. Did you put a post-it note in my sandwich?
Emma: I bit into it and pulled out this note with my teeth. I thought for a minute you forgot to take the wrapping off the cheese.
Me: I wanted to make sure you found the note.
Emma: So you put it inside the sandwich?
Me: It worked didn’t it? Did you read it?
Emma: Yes. It said, “We love you. Moms.”
Me: We mean it, you know.
Emma: I love you anyway.
She hung up, leaving me wondering what the ‘anyway’ meant. I looked at my blue-haired wife and said, “She didn’t say a word about our wigs.”
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