Thursday Night - Best Night Ever!

It’s six thirty and the meeting starts in an hour. Jay, who’s five, is running through the house semi-naked shouting out for clothes. My wife looks at me.
“Can you?”
I’m still looking at dear Chrissie who’s sat, fully togged up for the meeting, disconsolate. Earlier that evening she passed me a note from her teacher asking if she could play the Wicked Witch in the school’s upcoming production of the Wizard of Oz. Poor kid. She knew the answer before she passed me the note. She’s a great little actor and she knows it. Her teacher knows it. Damnit, I know it. I fed her the same old line about what Jehovah would want, my words turning to ashes as I speak.

“Can I take Barbie to the meeting?” Abigail is eight. I don’t have time to argue because Jay has sat in a small pool of something on the kitchen floor and is still running through the house, only now he’s naked.
“Did you find Jay some trousers?” My wife is trying to make a dent in the dishes before we leave but she has to get ready herself and leaves them. It’s always the same Thursday evenings. Home from work, dinner and the dishes but they will have to wait. Then the meeting followed by the obligatory chat with others, home and kids to bed, then the dishes. We will then go to bed late and exhausted. Thursday night, by mutual consent, is “pyjamas on” night.
I’m looking for clothes for Jay whilst curating relevant publication for the Book Bag. The Book Bag has three song books, three bibles and attendant literature.
I throw Jay his clothes, looking for the latest publication which I haven’t read, haven’t underlined, haven’t prepared.
“I don’t like these trousers!”
“Well find a pair you like.”

Abigail has Barbie in her hands, except it’s not Barbie anymore. Jay is a solid fan of Sid from Toy Story so Barbie has no head and her arms have been replaced with those taken from a T-Rex.
“Can I take Barbie, Dad?”
If images from the Book of Bible Stories aren’t sufficient to traumatise the kids in the congregation, Barbie will be.
“Where’s her head?” I ask but I don’t really care; I still have study material to find.
“Please daddy?”
The kid’s only eight and I’m robbing her of simple pleasures and replacing them with tedium and despair.
“Okay, but find her head and she stays in the Book Bag”.

Jay has found himself some trousers. He’s happy but it’s part of his Spiderman costume.
“You can’t wear those. Put on the others I gave you. It’s only for two hours.”
Even as I say “two hours” I know that’s not reasonable. To a five-year old, it’s a lifetime.
“Just – please Jay – do it for your dad.” I say it in the vain hope that supplication will be a good substitute for reasoning.

I learn that Barbie’s head might be in the back yard. I decide to take a quick look, still looking for the latest publication. I pass my wife who is looking for clean tights in the tumble drier.
“Where’re you going?”
“To see if Barbie’s head is in the garden.”
“Grant! It’s quarter to seven!”
A long explanation is required, but I don’t have time.
“I’ll be thirty seconds.”
In the back garden I see Tom, my neighbour playing football with his lad, Owen. Owen’s made the school soccer team.
“All suited and booted then?” he observes unnecessarily.
I think of some sort of snappy, best-life-ever sort of thing to say. Something to show him I’m waving to him from the crest of a wave. Something which beats his father/son bonding in the back garden. Something moving and profound to let him know that these sacrifices are worth it.
“Yep, same old, same old.” And I want to curl up and die. I want to retract it. I want to pretend that I didn’t mean to convey the drudgery of meeting nights and the misery it inflicts on my kids.
“Right!” Tom nods. He knows! He sees through it all and changes the subject.
“They say that your Chrissie is a shoe-in for the part of the Wicked Witch. I bet she’s excited.” I nod pathetically.
Barbie’s head isn’t outside but her arms are. We must leave soon or have to do the “shuffle of shame”; the dance of the tardy family which involves passing others on the way to our seats while the song is playing.

“Daddy, Jay put Barbie’s head in the toilet.”
Jay’s smiling broadly. His humour has become increasingly scatological but then again, he’s three. I have to scold him.
“Have you got the Book Bag ready, Grant?”
I walk in to find Chrissie. I stroke her hair. I know she’s the only kid in her school from the congregation so we might get away with it.
“What day is the performance of this play?”
She perks up as she knows there’s wiggle room here. Dad is prepared to negotiate and why not? It’s a bloody book, for crying out loud, not ritual sacrifice.
“I’ll think about it.” I say, knowing that if this comes out in the congregation I’ll be called in for a judicial. A super-judicial composed of twelve circuit overseers with cattle prods; an inquisition. But she’s my little girl and God knows she deserves more than what I’m giving her. She’s ten going on teen. It’s a cusp of something and I’m going to get it wrong. I know it.
“Grant! Is the Book Bag ready?” my wife calls out.
I can feel my shoulders tense. This is the last thing I need this evening. I rub my forehead where a headache is starting, and sigh.

Barbie’s head is still floating around in the loo, the Book Bag is incomplete, Jay is now wearing Bermuda shorts; we are leaving a pile of dirty dishes to come home to and there will be no consolation later, because tonight is “pyjamas on” night.

The characters and events in this piece are fictional. The point I’m making is, they needn’t have been.