Although there are times when Zach is mature, intelligent, and funny, there are some days when I think that he has undergone a brainectomy, leaving him deaf, forgetful, unable to use common sense, and causing him to say things to me that are the absolute opposite of funny.
This week, instead of going to tennis on Friday, the boys were going on Monday. But since Zach had a science project to finish, he wanted to go on Thursday (my schedule sucks). Being the pathetic accommodating person that I am, I of course said: "Sure, I'll make that work. But I will need to pick you up after school on Thursday, so don't take the bus home. And you'll need to have all of your tennis junk ready in the morning. Don't forget." This conversation occurred on Monday.
On Wednesday morning, Zach came down from his ten-minute shower wearing a t-shirt and tennis pants. I calmly said: "You don't have tennis today. Wouldn't it make more sense to wear that shirt tomorrow so you don't have to change in the car?"
While digging for the sports section, he muttered, "I'll wear a different tennis t-shirt tomorrow. I'm not going to change."
"Okay, but don't forget your shirt and bag tomorrow. Also, do not take the bus home, either, because I'm picking you up. And if you don't like cold breakfast, please shave a couple minutes off of your shower time."
"Got it! Stop reminding me!"
Side Note: Wednesday night, I watched Marcos Baghdatis suffer from severe leg cramps and still manage to win a five-set match at the Australian Open. While the win was amazing, what impressed me most was that after he shook hands with the chair umpire, he managed to gather up all of his racquets and other belongings and put them in his tennis bag, all by himself. I scanned the faces in the stands behind him, looking to see if maybe his mom was visible, saying: "Marcos! Put those racquets in your bag! And don't forget your water bottle! It is not my job to pack your bag!" While I don't dream of the day that my boys will play at the Australian Open, I do dream of the day that they manage to remember things and be responsible.
On Thursday morning, after a twelve minute shower, Zach finally appeared and seemed to be a little less than thrilled with his no-longer-piping-hot breakfast of eggs and toast, and I noticed that he wasn't wearing a tennis t-shirt.
"So, are you going to go change, or put a shirt in the tennis bag that you still have to pack?" I figured these were fair questions.
"I'm going to wear the shirt I already have on, since I forgot. I'll put a shirt in my bag." Again, he looked for the sports section, that from now on will be left in the newspaper box until after he leaves for school.
"Also, remember that I'm picking you up. I will be the angriest person you have ever met if you forget and take the bus home." I know I was acquiring Queen Nag status, but I didn't care. It has been proven time and time again that if I say something only once or twice, I might as well not say it at all. Repetition and nagging is the only way to get my point across.
Instead of responding, he continued to read the paper, and then eventually went back upstairs to brush his teeth, and grab a shirt, so I thought.
When he was finally getting his shoes and coat on (but no mittens, and don't even get me started on this topic), he asked me: "So, are you going to bring me a shirt then? Cuz I didn't bring one down. I forgot, but oh well."
And here is where I can't even recall what I actually said to him. I do know that the conversation included the words "personal slave" and "irresponsibiity" and maybe even "lazy." I also pointed out the fact that there wasn't a water bottle in his tennis bag, and his court shoes were still sitting in the closet. But hey, at least he knew that the Timberwolves lost by two points and that, unlike me, Favre performs well in tense situations.
He just stood there, looking at me like I was insane, and then finally said, "Oh gee. Sorry I made you have to go all the way upstairs to get me a shirt." and since he didn't want to go to school with an imprint of my foot on his ass, he walked out the door.
I'm thinking about maybe accidentally bringing him one of his little brother's shirts, or maybe I'll have a pink one custom made that says: "I bitched at my mom and treated her like crap, and instead of facial bruising, all I got was this stupid shirt."