Part one: A Promise 
It was Monday night, the first night of choir rehearsal. The choristers and their families were invited for an ice cream social to be followed by a parent orientation and then an abbreviated rehearsal. I had already made arrangements with a friend of mine to do her the favor of dropping her son off on our way home after rehearsal. That way my friend could skip out as soon as the orientation was over and take her two tired little girls home to bed.

“I don’t know if my son will remember that you’re taking him home,” she cautioned before she left. 

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ll snag him. I got it covered.”

Part Two: Three (Potential) Tragedies
On Wednesday when the kids and I were driving up the interstate, a car merged onto the highway in front of us. But instead of merging smoothly and , the driver drove directly across the line of traffic, his car perpendicular to ours. The cars to our left slammed on their brakes and one of them nearly crashed into the guardrail. Then, a few miles later, a tractor trailer ignored his yield sign and nearly plowed me off the highway.

The very next day I was driving down a country road when a pick-up came chugging toward me right down the center of the road. I slowed. The truck kept coming. I pulled into the ditch, my tires crunching into the side of the hill. I had nowhere to go and, in my panic, couldn’t locate the horn. I braced myself for impact, but at the last very last second the driver looked up, saw me, and swerved back onto his side.

Was this some cosmic joke? Three close calls in two days, and not a one of them my fault? Perhaps I’d better stop driving for awhile.

Part Three: A Realization 
We were driving north on 81 on Saturday, on our way back from The Frontier Culture Museum, and as we neared home, my thoughts turned towards the evening. “Hm,” I thought to myself. “We have to pick up our son from choir this evening. Maybe my friend would like to take a turn picking him up since I took her son…”

And then I stopped breathing. Because HOLY COW. Oh my word, NO. I forgot. I forgot to take my friend’s kid home after rehearsal. No, no, no!!!

So severe was my shock, that then I couldn’t remember if I was remembering correctly. Did I take him? Did I leave him? Had he been in our car? After five minutes of hard thinking, I came to the wretched conclusion that I had, indeed, left the poor boy behind.

My husband was appalled. He raked me over the coals and back. And then he did it again. The children were no better. They were, quite frankly, stunned. As we came to the road that led to my friend’s property, my older daughter ordered me to turn left. “You have to go apologize to them in person, Mom,” she said severely.

But I came straight home, too tired to think of going anywhere else. And too embarrassed. I was convinced I had totally wrecked my friend’s evening. Her husband had been working that night, if I recalled, and she had probably already tucked the girls into bed by the time her son finally phoned. So then she had to untuck the girls, pack them into the van, and trundle back into town to pick up her forlorn and forgotten child.

And it had taken me all of five whole days to remember. Five days! I left the kid at choir for five days.

Oh the shame. I could hardly bear to think on it.

Back home, I sent an email to my friend, the end of which went, more or less, like this:

I’m not sure I can make it up to you but I’d like to try. So here’s my suggestion: my husband will be picking up our son tonight and he would like to take your son home afterward. He will not forget. And I would like to send along a treat for you. I am hopeful that I can be like Amelia Bedelia and make something so delicious that you all take one bite and promptly forget the foolish errors of my irresponsible ways. It’s worth a shot at least, yes? So what say you? May I be granted a second chance? 

My friend did not reply. I sent the delicious apology/bribe (a peanut butter chocolate cake with chocolate ganache that I just happened, thankfully, to have in the fridge) along with my husband anyway. When he returned, he reported that when he handed over the cake and said, “Read your email. I’m not going to say anything else.”

“You know, kids,” I said. “There’s a lesson here. Sometimes when people do really thoughtless and irresponsible and stupid things, there’s a chance they might not be trying to make your life miserable. Sometimes they have no idea they’re even doing anything wrong.” Like, say, the drivers of those cars? Hmm…..

I washed the dishes, glancing at the computer every two seconds to see if my friend (was she still my friend?) had replied. And that’s when it hit me: all those almost-crashes? That was the universe trying to pick me off because I had left behind that poor boy! I laughed so hard that my younger daughter came running in from outside to see what was so funny.

Then the phone rang and it was my friend and she was laughing. She was not angry! She still liked me! She thought the whole thing was funny, uproariously funny. My anxiety drained away, and relief flooded so quickly I turned giddy. I felt clean, refreshed, light. 

And humbled, too. Grace is a powerful gift, better than any cake.

(But still, it’s always good to have a cake at the ready. You never know when you might need some forgiveness leverage.)

This same time, years previous: test your movies!, the quotidian (9.24.12), simple roast chicken, painting my belly, roasted butternut squash salad, and one hot chica.

We went back to the Frontier Culture Museum on Saturday. I know, I know, it’s crazy. My husband was dismayed by my fascination with the place. “I can’t believe you want to go back,” he said. “This is so not like you.”

He didn’t really want to go. Saturday was going to be a glorious day, perfect for hanging around home and doing everything but digging the sweet potatoes that I was after him about. Plus, it was Fall Folk day at the museum. There would be food trucks and special activities and lots of people. My husband is not keen on crowds. “Why don’t we go on a day when no one will be there,” he whined. 

“Because,” I explained for the hundredth time, “I’ve been there when it’s empty and I want to see what it’s like when it’s busy. I want to see what the special activities are like. It will give me a better feel for the place. Besides, the kids are begging to go.” Which was a half lie. Only the younger two were pestering. My older daughter was longing for a do-nothing day, but I gave her no choice. (My older son had an all-day choir camp, so he was automatically out of the picture, but I think he would’ve been happy to come along.)

“Fine. Whatever you want,” my husband said.

Actually, I was a little worried that we’d be bored. We had explored the place so thoroughly only three days before. What if it was a total letdown?

I needn’t have worried. Last time we stayed for six hours. This time we stayed for seven and a half, and we didn’t even get to all the exhibits.

“I don’t get it how people can breeze through this place in just three hours,” I said to my husband. 

“Really, Jennifer? I totally get it it. Aren’t you watching people? They just walk in and walk out. It’s easy.”

We, on the other hand, took our good old time, plopping our butts down as often as possible.

It was marvelous fun.

In Germany, a cooper had set up shop in the entry room. He spouted facts while shaving wood and pounding metal rings onto barrels.

The kids and I flopped down on the benches surrounding his workspace and watched, mesmerized by his efficient movements and steady stream of information. “It’s so much fun to watch someone work when they know what they’re doing,” my husband commented later.

We arrived late to a musket shooting demo. The crowd was just starting to disperse when my younger son zipped onto the scene and shouted to the tall pioneer lad, “Are you going to shoot the gun?”

“No, hon,” I said. “He already did…”

“Oh, did you miss the demo?” the guide interrupted me. “I can do it again for you.”

And that’s how we got our own private little demo. Sometimes it pays to be late.

Afterward, the guide took took the kids to the other side of the property and so they could help him split some logs.

And after that we walked over to an older gentlemen had a whole stash of different fire-starting materials. He demonstrated all of them, and, in turn, the kids told him about when they were in Guatemala and set of firecrackers with a magnifying glass. Before we left, he let the kids choose from his collection of homemade arrowheads.

All afternoon, my younger daughter had been begging to go back to England. When we had visited that morning, she had helped with the laundry. She wanted to go back to visit with the woman who worked there (and who had, I learned, been working in that English house for the last fourteen years), but when we got to the house, it seemed deserted, the washtubs empty and only a few linens drying in the grass. I sat down on a bench to wait while the kids went through the house one last time. After a bit, my husband came out. “They’re sewing,” he said. “You might as well come on in.”

Sure enough, the children were gathered around the long table, mending the linens.

“Never in all my years here have I given a sewing lesson,” the good housewife crowed.

We lingered around the table, savoring the late afternoon sun and the peaceful quiet, the children’s narrow focus on needle and fabric a sweet reprieve after our day’s glut of activity.

So here’s some museum-going advice from an infrequent museum goer: When you visit the museum, stop and sink. Sink to the ground, sink into a chair, sink into your curiosity. Allow yourself to just be in the space, observing, listening, doing. You might not get to see everything, but you’ll go home filled up and tuckered out.

PS. And now I’ll stop talking about the museum. Pinky promise.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (9.22.14), hurdle-free molten brownie cakes, we love Fred, and vacationing till it hurts.

This same time, years previous: the big, bad wolf and our children, baking with teachers, candid camera, when the relatives came, thousand island slaw with roast chicken, I’m still here, and retreat.