November 1, 2019
By Ekta R. Garg
Enjoy these Spurts from the last few weeks, readers!
Since the start of the school year, the girls, along with a handful of their schoolmates, have helped their drama teacher prepare for this year’s performances. They’ve built sets for the elementary kids and talked through blocking for middle school shows.
Typically this happens after school on Tuesdays, but with the sheer amount of work the teacher has asked the kids to come in a few Saturdays. On one or two Saturdays, the teacher has waited for us or left the door propped open around the time she knew we’d arrive. Two weeks ago, however, when we arrived at school at the meeting time, we found the school doors locked.
I sat in the car and watched Thirteen and Eleven peer through the glass doors leading to the hallway outside the gym. They both turned to me with a “Now what?” look, so I motioned for them to go down the sidewalk to the main entrance. Those doors were locked too.
Of course, on a morning like this, I forgot my cell phone. I huffed and sighed and drove home to grab my phone so I could text the teacher. Within minutes, she texted back that she would be at the door to open it for the kids. We turned around and went back to school.
“Can you imagine doing this without cell phones?” Eleven asked.
“We did,” I said. “We didn’t have cell phones when I was a kid.”
“So what would you do?” she asked. “I mean, if you went there and found that the doors were locked.”
“You’d just…go home, I guess,” I said. “You’d wait by the landline for the other person to call you back and ask where they were. Then you just set up another time to meet.”
She considered this—a world without cell phones, in which we had to just wait on one another without instant confirmation about who was going where and when—and I thought for a moment about my own childhood. I remember life without the internet and smart devices, of course; anyone my age does. I guess, maybe, that’s why I’m still a little in awe of them.
The girls go to art lessons straight after school on Wednesdays, but weeks after school started they started talking about quitting art. The level of homework Thirteen in particular is getting makes it hard for her to get it done on Wednesdays. After some back and forth, we finally agreed. At the end of this semester, they’ll get their Wednesday afternoons back.
Since my husband and I told the kids they could drop art in December, every Wednesday after school Thirteen has gotten into the car and said, “I just want to go home.”
I tried to make things better by counting down the Wednesdays left every week. Somehow that doesn’t seem to be helping. I just end up with two kids glaring at me.
This week, when I put their snacks together for the car ride to art class, I decided to make hot chocolate and put it in two travel mugs. The temperatures have dropped close to winter levels, and it’s cold outside. So I boiled milk, added cocoa mix, and poured steaming hot chocolate into the mugs. Then I packed up their snacks, the mugs, and their art supplies, and headed to school.
Thirteen got into the front seat and gasped with pleasure.
“It’s hot chocolate, isn’t it?” she asked with a grin of delight.
I smiled back and greeted Eleven as she got in the car too.
“Hot chocolate, [Eleven],” Thirteen said.
“Well, it’s cold out, so I thought you might like something warm to drink,” I said.
“And it’s Wednesday,” Eleven said in a resigned voice.
“Oh, don’t worry, the hot chocolate’s a bribe for going to art class,” Thirteen said.
“It’s not a bribe!” I said in an affronted manner.
(It was totally a bribe.)
“Sure,” Thirteen said with a gleam in her eye.
What can I say? These kids definitely have my number. I guess I’ll have to get better at, um, cold-weather treats. Yeah. ‘Cause that’s what I was doing.
The girls had a half day today, so we made plans to go to Panera for lunch. As we sat and waited for their dad to join us, the girls dug into their meals. Thirteen scooped a spoonful of Panera’s turkey chili and devoured it.
“One day, I’m going to come to Panera and order the chicken tortellini alfredo,” she said.
“Well, it’s a huge portion,” I said, “but you can always share it.”
She paused over her bowl. “I can?”
“But who would split it with me?”
“I’ll split it,” Eleven said.
Her entire lunch experience, I could see in her eyes, had just changed.
“The next time I come to Panera, I’m going to order the chicken tortellini alfredo.”
“One day I’ll come to Panera and order a whole bunch of sweets,” Eleven said.
“And get a stomachache,” I said.
“I’ll have a party and invite all my friends,” she said.
“You wouldn’t invite me?” I asked, feigning shock.
“No,” Thirteen said, “you’d probably tell us, ‘That’s way too much sugar.’”
Eleven broke into a laugh, and I couldn’t help laughing at Thirteen’s imitation of me. I probably would tell them it was too much sugar. Then I’d beg for a scone.