It’s curriculum night. Again.

The last thing I want is to go back to middle school.

But it’s curriculum night.

I don’t want to go. Is that bad?

Cro Magnon is baffled by my dilemma.

“You don’t have to go. Why go? I never go.” (He never does)

“Because you’re supposed to.” I say.

“But why?“

“Because.”

“Because why?” (It’s like talking to a four-year-old).

I stare at him. “I don’t know. Because I’ll get mom-shamed. Moms – and many dads, I’m told – are supposed to go.”

“I don’t go. I never go. And the kids are doing alright.”

Sigh.

“Did you ever  skip?” he asks.

“Um, yeah,” I tell him. It was a few years ago. I never told anyone about it. I pulled into a packed school parking lot, got at glimpse of all the good parents sitting in desks pushed together in groups of four listening to a teacher standing in front of a blackboard. The windows were cracked. It looked hot.

So I drove back out.

I went to Marshalls.

I leave that last part out when I tell Cro Magnon.

“What are you going to do if you go?” he asks me.

“I don’t. Know. Go to her classes, see her teachers, say hi, so they know I’m there. That I came because I care about my child’s education and I’m a concerned, good parent, like all the other Vera –Bradley toting moms.”

Sigh.

“Can you talk to the teachers?” he asks me.

“Not really no. There’s too many people. It’s too crowded.” I tell him.

“Why bother? It’s like you going to Philly to see the Pope. Look there’s me in the corner – along with a million other people. Nobody would know you didn’t go…”

“I would…”

Silence.

So. I don’t know if I’ll go. Maybe I’ll go. I’ll just. Go.

I’m going.

But I could get my hair trimmed.

Spot on

Cro Magnon has a spot on his shirt.

He put it on this morning to practice golf.

“Hey,” he says to me. “How do you get stains out of a shirt?”

I can’t believe he asked this question.

“Why? Are you wearing that grey shirt? The one with the spot on it.”

He is.

“Throw it out,” I tell him.

“What? I can’t do that. I hate throwing shirts out.”

“But it has a stain on it,” I tell him.

“I’ll just wear a vest over it. No one will know. And, besides, it’s a practice shirt.”

“Are you kidding?” I ask. “You’ve got shirts in there you’ll never wear. Why are you wearing a shirt with stains on it?”

“I don’t want to ruin the other shirts.”

That makes sense.

“Sooo, you have a closet of new shirts that you don’t wear because you don’t want to ruin them, so you wear one with stains all over it? Doesn’t make any sense.”

Silence. He’s spooling.

“I hate throwing out shirts.”

Sigh.

“What if you saw a guy wearing that shirt while playing golf? What would you think of him?”

“I would think he’s wearing a nice shirt. But it has stains on it.”

There’s hope.

He takes off the shirt. “Here.”

I throw it in the trash.

And bury it. So he can’t take it out later.

Because he just might.

Shut up and drive

Cro Magnon has a convertible. A Mazda. He drives it four months a year. Maybe.

He wants a new one.

“Why?” I ask him. “You have one.”

“Because I want one.”

“You already have a little car.”

“But this is new.”

“So? It’s a waste of money.” (Cro Magnon hates wasting money).

Silence.

“I know why you want that car. It’s your midlife crisis. You think if you buy that car, you’re buying youth. It’s what men do — men your age.”

Silence.

“But S-Man says this is the car to get.”

“S-Man is in midlife too, “ I say.

Silence.

“But I want it .”

Help me.

“Why?”

“Because I do.” Like talking to a four-year-old.

And then.

“It’s a great deal.”

“How much?”

He tells me. He tells me and I can’t believe he would even think about spending that kind of money on something he drives occasionally four months out of the year. And on something that doesn’t look all that different from the little thing he drives now. The little thing that men usually drive when they’re hitting that midlife bump.

Silence.

“Ok. I won’t get it.”

“I think that’s wise,” I say.

Silence. He’s crying inside.

Because he’s a man. And he’s not getting a new car.

And I’m right.