I never get to go anywhere. I mean, there was that time I was in Sochi, Russia for the Olympics, but that was forever ago. Since then, I never get to go anywhere. Ever.
So, I finally land this big interview in another state that requires me to pack a bag and be gone for two days.
Three and a half hours into the trip, the woman texts to tell me her attorneys have called it off.
I am so mad. At the woman. At all attorneys who ALWAYS tell EVERYONE not to talk. We turn the news vehicle around and begin the long drive back, deflated, disappointed.
When I get home late that night, my husband tells me, “I got a call from the after school program.”
“Yeah?” I’m annoyed. I still have my unread magazines packed in my overnight bag, the ones that will never be perused in a big, quiet hotel room away from everyone.
“She called to say that Jude told her his sister had a dentist appointment and they needed to be picked up.”
This is not true. They are months overdue for their dentist appointments. I would know.
My husband begins to laugh. That wasn’t all. The woman told him that Jude probably wanted to be picked up because he was bored, that he couldn’t go on the playground because he had tied his shoelaces together and that they, the adults, couldn’t get them untied.
And then she shared what my son proposed to her. “Jude said — he would take really tiny steps.”
My husband holds up Jude’s sneakers, still tied together. We laugh until we are breathless.
Him, shoe laces tied, stumbling his way to the playground. Me, big girl fumbling my way to another failed interview.
At least we try.