A few days ago, I wrote a ranty post about the bad parts of my life. About hating money and being grown up. Remember that? I’m sure you do.
Well, in that post I mentioned Pop Tarts. As in, worrying about being able to buy Pop Tarts.
My kids are Pop Tart Nazis. They would eat them every day, for every meal, forever and ever, amen.
In the mornings when we ready ourselves for the world, we are forced to be on a pretty tight schedule…one that consists of my hitting snooze exactly twice, then rising to the kids’ shared room (Ava has a room that was supposed to be hers, but she says it’s “too far, too far ‘way” from Max’s room and ours, so I’m considering making that room into a studio) to huddle under Ava’s covers while she pats my face. We have to be at the school by 7:45 at the latest for the kids to eat breakfast there, which puts us usually in a panicked rush, not helped along by the fact that no matter what I decide to wear that day, I end up changing at least once (usually into something without a buttoned waist). The kids get dressed, faces washed, teeth brushed, etc.
Many days we just don’t make it, and I resort to the happy solution of PopTarts in the truck on the way to school.
Except on days we’ve run out, or budgeted too tightly. Then we’re PopTartless.
The day of the ranty post, I had exactly $1.75 to my name, and we’d run late that morning. I took the kids up for breakfast at school anyway, because we hadn’t had any PopTarts and if they didn’t eat breakfast there, they wouldn’t eat until lunch. I was frustrated and tired and a little embarrassed…hence the post.
A day or two ago, I get a message on my facebook wall from Amanda Gurney, saying that I should be expecting a package from her soon.
My mind raced. I never know what to expect from Amanda, she is the queen of unexpected thoughtfulness, and boxes from her are always a delight.
Last night after rehearsal for The Sneeze, Josh and I were driving home (the kids were still at church with their Nana, so we were just ourselves for a moment), and as we drove past the front of our home to the driveway in the back, I spotted a brown box on the front porch.
“It’s my mail from Amanda! It came!”
I got out of the truck, unlocked the house, and hurried through to the front porch, bumbling out onto the wooden slats and retrieving my cardboard prize, anticipating the smooth familiar handwriting on the board and wondering about the hands that wrote it.
I walked back through to the kitchen, surveying the labels on the packaging and thinking there had to be a mistake.
“But this isn’t from Amanda, this label is…it’s like, mechanical. And it’s from the States.”
Nevertheless, it was my name, mechanical or not, so I opened the top tape and flipped open the box.
And I started to laugh.
Josh pushed his way over to peer past my shoulder, and he began to laugh, too.
For there, nestled in poofy bubble wrap, shipped from New York, and ordered from across an ocean, were boxes and boxes and boxes of Pop Tarts.
Amanda Diane, I love you.
On the day that future Baby Gurney is dragging his/her feet and you’re rushing to dress and get out on time, searching for pressed school uniforms and locating your other trendy oh-so-hip Mary Jane heel (the one that somehow freed itself from your organization), you will understand just how much I love you. And then you’ll laugh, just like I did. And you’ll remember that you made my life a little better. And I am thankful.