That’s because my wife and I cart our kids all over the place. Between taking them to school, extracurricular activities and friends, we spend a lot of time in the car going here, there and everywhere at what often seems like all times of the day and night.
In other words, our family schedule is crazy. So crazy, it prompted me to create an online family calendar that somehow syncs with my phone. I don’t pretend to know how the Internet talks to my phone’s calendar, it just does. And, as long as we keep our calendar up-to-date and I remember to consult it once or twice a day, my phone tells me where our kids and I need to be and when.
My phone is my brain, and it usually informs me that I have Wednesday nights off – my only obligation being to make sure the kids get out the door for piano lessons after school. Their piano teacher lives in our neighborhood. So, rather than providing taxi cab services, my responsibility on Wednesday afternoons is to badger our kids so much that they are eager to make the two-minute walk to piano just to get away from me.
Last Wednesday, however, was different. My wife called to ask if I wouldn’t mind taking our daughter to Girl Scouts so she could have more time to walk our giant dog Rodney.
I started to resist. I look forward to Wednesday evenings. They are just about the only evening of the week that I don’t have to be anywhere, but then my wife mentioned “GIRL SCOUT COOKIES.”
She knew what she was doing. She dangled them in front of me and I responded like Rodney does when the treats come down from on top of the refrigerator.
I licked my lips, sat and wagged my tail expectantly.
And, then I rolled over and gave up my Wednesday evening.
Later that night, I came home with a trunk full of Do-Si-Dos, Trefoils, Tagalongs, Savannah Smiles, Somoas, and my favorite Thin Mints.
My only regret? They weren’t all mine.
That’s not to say I didn’t consider “misplacing” them somehow.
But I wasn’t sure I could come up with a plausible enough excuse to satisfy my wife and daughter. They had deliveries to make.
Unfortunately, I did too. My colleagues at work were clamoring for them. A rival cookie seller had already made good on her orders and they were wondering why I hadn’t. The fact that ours were delayed by ice and snow didn’t mollify them. One even took to impatiently calling me “Cookie Man,” as in “Hey, Cookie Man! Where are my cookies?”
For next year, “Cookie Man” has a plan. It involves writing in bogus names on the order form and “delivering” them when the time comes.
That way, when my wife asks her trained dog of a husband to fetch the cookies home, no one has to worry that their order might mysteriously disappear. There will be plenty for everyone and a few extra for me.