I spent four goddamn hours Sunday night locating the 8-year-old’s belt because at his school, you have to wear a belt. No matter what. Even if your pants fit you. Jesus. Why don’t they just send home another wasteful flyer that tells everyone they need to not only wear a belt, but the kids have to wear suspenders, too?
The belt he has been wearing for the past year has suddenly disappeared. I begged Carl to hypnotize the 8-year-old so he could remember wear the belt went, but Carl said he didn’t know anything about hypnosis and left us hanging. You don’t want Carl on your team. Ever.
Carl and I had bought a belt for him earlier in the day, but it was too small. And no, it never dawned on us to bring the 8-year-old with us so he could actually try the belt on. That’s something they don’t write about in those stupid parenting books: bring your kid along when you need a proper fit. Hey, HarperCollins – call me!
And don’t ever have a toddler help you find something because they will screw you over each time. I asked the toddler if she knew where her brother’s belt was. She pulled me to the freezer, opened it up and pointed to an ice cream sandwich. Fuck.
At 10pm, Carl said we should probably run to Walmart to get a belt. I glared at him and started doing this chortling sound like a dying honey badger in the middle of the forest.
Me: There’s no way in fuck I’m going to Walmart. Especially right now.
Carl: C’mon. It’ll be fun. You don’t even have to change.
Me: But my hair’s in a towel and I’m wearing my robe.
I ran upstairs and rifled through my drawers like a crack addict trying to find their stash. There has got to be a goddamn simple black belt up in here!
But instead, I pulled out a red belt that looked like it belonged to Thurston Howell III, a black belt that was wide on side and skinny on the other because I am always at the forefront of fashion, a brown faux-tortoise shell belt that has never been worn because it is uglier than sin and bunch of other random belts that have never seen the light of day and probably conspire all day on how to escape my messy drawers.
Finally, I found an old leather belt. Brown and braided.
Me: Here, try this bad boy on.
8-year-old: Who’s is this?
Me: Mine. Does it matter? It’s a belt.
8-year-old: Well, I’ve seen you use it before. So if I use it, I’m gonna feel like you. And you’re a girl. Get it?
Me: You’ll look fine. Now try it.
Carl: Yeah, man – see? It looks good on me, right?
8-year-old and Me: [stifles laughter and turns away]
Carl: Now, it’s your turn [hands belt to 8-year-old]
8-year-old: I think I’m starting to come down with the plague or something.
Me: After all that work we just went through? No way. Your ass is going to school. I don’t care if you’re bleeding.
8-year-old: What if my eyeball pops out?
Me: Then wear an eyepatch, matey.
8-year-old: It’s gonna be a great school year.