The lengths we go to. . .

I have procrastination skills that would make Scarlett O’Hara envious, and, “monkey-see-monkey-do,” Seth is rapidly following my example. Last week, he, along with the other winners, were invited to read their winning essays at a luncheon hosted by the organization sponsoring the contest.

“You really need to start reading it aloud now so you’ll be comfortable with it at the luncheon.” I told him.

Seth yawned and threw himself onto my bed. “Oh, I’ll be okay,” he replied lazily. “I work better under a tight deadline.”

Oh crap, my words have come back to bite me, I cringed, thinking of all the times I had let an article slide until the last minute. “But you really shouldn’t put things off until the last minute.” I’m such a hypocrite.

“Why not? You do it all the time.”

Ouch, that hurt, I thought. I kept pestering, and finally he grudgingly read the essay once; the keyword here is once. He didn’t look at it again until the night before the luncheon.

With the fierceness of a small tornado, Seth blew into the house on Tuesday afternoon, throwing books haphazardly onto the living room couch, and demanded I make my whereabouts known.

“I’m in the bedroom,” I called, typing happily on the keyboard. He thundered down the hall and barged in, a crazed look in his eyes. I knew it well; it was the nail-biting, oh-my-gosh-what-am-I-going-to-do look; the look of extreme desperation. I had worn the same look in the past.

“You’ve gotta help me,” he pleaded.

“Read it out loud while I work.”

Seth mumbled through it, barging through the periods like a semi-tractor trailer running a stop sign. I spun around in the chair and faced him.

“Umm. First, enunciate your words, look up every once in a while, and stop at the periods. Try it again.” Seth read again, this time speaking louder and enunciating, but still barreling through the periods.

“Let’s try this,” I sighed. “Every time you need to end a sentence, I’ll hold up my hand. Keep in mind this is just for practice.” Seth giggled and read again. I held up my hand for every period and it worked like a charm.

“Hey, that works great,” Seth rejoiced. “Do that at the luncheon tomorrow.”

“I can’t hold up my hand for every period tomorrow. People will think I’m crazy.”

“Then scratch your head.”

“No! Then every one will think I have lice or something.”

“How about winking or raising your left eyebrow?”

“They’ll think I have a nervous tic.”

“What will I do?” he whined.

“Try practicing,” I said calmly. The rest of the evening, the house was filled with the sound of Seth’s practicing. By bedtime, all of us could have recited the essay by memory.

Yesterday afternoon, we journeyed to Logan’s Steakhouse for the luncheon. “I feel like I’m gonna barf,” Seth mumbled.

“I always felt like that before every band concert, volleyball game, or play I was in; it’s normal,” I said.

“Where you scared when you had your book signing?” he asked.

“Out of my mind,” I smiled, putting my arm around his shoulders. The luncheon was in the rear of the restaurant in a rustic looking room. We sat at a table in front of a large picture window.

“You sit in front of the window,” John told me. Is he out of his mind, putting an accident-prone person in front of a window? I wondered. The lunch was great, and soon it was time for the essays. My heart went out to Seth as he stood to read. He hands trembled as he held the paper. His speech was good, but he began running through the periods like Carl Lewis running the 100-yard dash.

I have to help him somehow. I coughed, and threw my arms back as if stretching. My ring, too large for my finger, flew off and hit the window behind me with a loud plink.
Everyone stared as I smiled sheepishly and sipped on my sweet tea. At the moment, I wished I could plunge into the tea glass and disappear. John shook his head and gave me the I-can’t-take-you-anywhere look.

My move had the desired affect. Seth stopped at the end of every sentence after my embarrassing moment. Oh, what we don’t mind going through for our kids. Would I do it again? Certainly!