Overdue

When Peter and I toured our Parish's grade school several weeks ago, the student ambassadors referred to their non-core classes as 'specials.' I coaxed them to say it again:
'What did you call Art Class again?'
'A special.'
I smiled, reminiscing about my days at St. Edmund's. We had used that term as well. We called all the classes that only appeared on our schedule two or three times a week 'specials' too: Gym, Language Arts, Chapel and Chapel Rehearsal, Art, Library, Woodshop, Music. You name it, they offered it at St. Edmund's.

The first through third graders were the luckiest though - they had the best 'special' of all: Sewing, Cooking, and Crafts. It was just one class, the title rolling off your tongue in one breath, but broken into three trimester-long parts with three very special teachers. It was my grade school's version of early home ec. And it was so special that it only happened once a week, always leaving us craving more.

The first trimester was spent in Mrs. Goetz' fourth grade room, crafting. With her, we learned how to use glue guns; how to make a little game of catch using cardboard cones, string and a bouncy ball; how to turn four little pieces of canvas and green yarn into a frog that you could squeeze open to reveal the Hershey Kiss that he held inside; and how to bead nationality necklaces using clothespins personally decorated to look like your early ancestors. When I designed my German man to look like a Nazi in second grade though, it caused quite a stir. I learned a little more about swastikas than the Sound of Music offered that day.  

During the second trimester, we rotated to Mrs. Stone's Language Arts classroom, where we learned the finer points of sewing. We went home with pillows, purses and little stuffed birds - perfect Mother's Day gifts.

Finally, toward the end of the year, we moved to my favorite of the trifecta, cooking with Mr. Friedman, the art teacher. We received lessons in preparing fettucini alfredo, swedish meatballs, Rice Krispie treats, and more. It was before the days when allergens and food sensitivities were banned from schools. Certain kids would complain about the menu du jour:
'I'm lactose intolerant.'
'I don't eat red meat.'
'I'm allergic to peanut butter.'
'Well, more for us,' said Mr. Friedman.
I remember how amazing it was to eat a small portion of fettucini on a paper plate in the middle of the day - a treat normally reserved for an apres ski family dinner at Nino Barsotti's.


Over the past ten days, I feel like I created the dream schedule for my eight-year old self. No mandatory core classes, just a never-ending rotation of specials, but with some minor variations: Chapel was replaced with Mass, gym with jogging, Library with its Western Suburban counterparts, and music with labor and delivery mix reshuffling. And what used to be just once a week, is now a daily occurrence - I've been cooking and crafting ad infintum. I removed the sewing part of the equation though. I was never that good at it anyway. I have filled page after page in the latest edition of my scrap book. I have drawn, painted, and framed. The other day, I even went to Joann Fabrics for supplies, which let me just tell you, hosts a pretty interesting crowd midday. I expanded my daily dinner repertoire to include a specially packed lunch for Peter everyday, hosted a couple inspired dinner parties, and have more on the baking docket today.

The problem is, it's the equivalent of Grandparents and Special Friends Day this weekend - my parents, Nana and Opa, are en route. Just like the annual day at St. Edmund's where I got to showcase all my special work to Double G, Grandma and my babysitter - the masterpieces I had made, the songs I had learned, the poems I could recite - today or tomorrow, my parents are looking forward to seeing my nine month-long project. Except little Miss Mary isn't quite ready yet. While all the other projects I've been working on for the past week and a half are ready, my stubborn little girl has decided she needs a little more time in the oven.

You know how it feels to travel all day - long flights, layovers, an estimated arrival time that is way past your bedtime. And then when you finally reach your destination, the bag that the flight attendant made you check just isn't coming around the turn style. Everyone else slowly, but surely sees their bag, picks it up and goes home. But you have to wait and wait and wait. Well, this morning, as yet another 2013 baby popped up on my Facebook newsfeed, I had that exact feeling. Like my precious cargo just won't appear. And I'm done waiting; ready to file a complaint.

Mary, if this were Library, you would definitely be getting an overdue notice.

Lo.