I call it the “preemptive strike.” I don’t actually say that term aloud, but I use it in my own head in order to feel like I am in some form of command as a mother. It sounds so official and impressive.
The preemptive strike will look something like this. At bedtime, I will inform my son about what he needs to know the following morning. Listen up, soldier.
“You have a basketball game tomorrow morning at 9:00. We need to leave our house at 8:30. Your uniform is washed and laying on the floor beside your dresser. Make sure you have eaten breakfast and you are in the van by 8:30.”
My son will look me in the eyes and nod his head with a look of apparent understanding. He does not salute me, but I feel the small nod is a good start. All signs point to an agreement between the two of us. Carry on.
Then the following conversation will occur approximately 12 hours later.
“Mom! Where is my basketball uniform?”
“Hey, Mom! What time is my game today?”
“When do we need to leave?”
The preemptive strike has fallen on a dry and barren land and has apparently left no sign of impact.
I smack my head (sometimes quite literally!) and answer his questions while making a mental note to abort all future preemptive missions.
Later in the week, I try a new tactic. I repeat and remind my son of something multiple times in order to give him more opportunities for intake. And then I hear,
“You already told me that. That’s old news.”
Perhaps I should turn in my dog tags.
I am caught between the land of “old news” and the land of “why doesn’t my mom ever tell me what’s going on.”
I’m considering calling a press conference in the morning to complain.
But then again, my son would miss it because he’ll be too busy looking for his basketball uniform.
This post is a part of the Five Minute Friday challenge, where a group of bloggers write for approximately five minutes after being given a one-word prompt. This week’s word was: News. To see more, click here. http://katemotaung.com