Have you ever had one of those days when you’ve made an ass of yourself (and maybe even a couple of other people), and after trying to clean up that mess, you’re cranky, and tired and overwhelmed? The laundry is miles high. You can’t find a single clean spoon in the kitchen. Boy tells Girl, “Shake the can of soda before you open it!” and she does. Girl dumps 3/4 of a bottle of shampoo on her head, and you shouldn’t be upset because she’s washing her hair all by herself. (But you are.) And you haven’t shaved your legs in two days, because who cares? (time for a Super Wash, for sure)
That was my day, but my good humor is restored, even in spite of this little bonus:
My mother emailed me today. Yeah, you read it right. I thought it might have been related to the spam bonanza from yesterday, but it doesn’t seem so. She forwarded to me (and about a dozen others) a story about a kid named Shay who was challenged with mental and physical disabilities. But one day he and his dad were walking by the ballpark, and the teams invited him to play, and they let him score a run, and it made his whole year, and his family’s year, too. And then, God bless him, he died that winter. A touching story, yes.* At the end, there was a big moral-of-the-story paragraph or two, about being nice to people and changing the world, blah blah blah.
Which, I suppose, includes not disowning your children. But I didn’t read the fine print.
I couldn’t stop myself. “Did you mean to send this to me?” I wrote back. Eight whole words, when WTF? would have worked just as well.
She wrote back.
Yes, Jennifer, I did. You act surprised. The story of Shay’s Day has made the rounds of the internet several times, and I usually shed a tear or two, and then delete it without forwarding. But it’s time for the back-biting, nit-picking and secrecy that pervades this family to end. “Shay’s Day” points out quite well there are things more important than winning…that if we’d all choose to treat one another with respect and kindness, the world would be a much better place.
The Dalai Lama has got nothing on my mother.
The good news is that I feel impervious to this sort of thing now, whatever she’s up to, and I couldn’t have said that a couple of years ago.
And because it’s not weighing me down, this craziness, I’m going to leave you with a song that makes me happy every time I hear it. Dance it out, folks. That’s my plan.
*Edited to say: Now that I have confirmation that the story is true, I just want to say that my problem isn’t with the story itself, but with her use of it to manipulate.