Friday! Friday! Friday!

Whoopie.

Usually, the arrival of Friday signals the start of good things. This week, my children are oozing toxic green stuff from their nostrils and when I dropped my kids off at school, the janitor had already cleaned up two different vomiting episodes in adjacent classrooms. With our immunity at what I assume is an all-time low, I indulged in a full-body dip in Purell upon my return home, and plan to soak the children in bleach after school.

Once upon a time, I wouldn't dream of sending my snot-oozing, ready-to-be-distraught children out into the world to infect other children and disrupt classes. Today, I not only took them to school, I let them ride their bikes (they begged, this was NOT my idea) in the chilly foggy weather. I'm either a bad mother, or as I like to think, preparing them for the harsh world that awaits them. Sort of like real world bootcamp. Besides, think of the stories they'll tell their grandchildren:

"I rode my bike a whole mile in the freezing cold, with a runny nose and my mother trailing behind, embarrassing me with her hollering about stop signs and cars backing out of driveways. It turned me from a pansy into one tough cookie. Yeah, back then I hated it, but now I'm thankful for those hard years."

This evening, we are supposed to attend a bi-lingual concert as part of our children's theater subscription, and I'm a-feared. Lordy, the thought of having to maintain my composure and whisper in my good-mom faker voice for a full hour is horrifying.

Of course, the program could actually be great, and hold their attention. I hope the old guy with the stick up his *cough* who sits in the row in front of us would decide not to come tonight, unlike last time when he turned around and glared at me after my daughter accidentally kicked the seat in front as she wiggled out of her coat and then snarled "I hope those kids aren't going to kick my seat all night."

Look, buddy. You're at a theatre performance for three-to twelve-year-olds, and I hate to break it to you, but little kids sometimes get squirmy and their legs don't touch the floor, making an accidental kicking of a seat back an unfortunate, but not unlikely event in a tightly packed theatre row. I'll do my best to make sure they don't ruin this fine, musical prodution of "Calliou, The Most Annoying Child On Television" for you, but if you snarl at me one more time, I'm going to kick your seat myself, and see if I can't dislodge that *cough* you have rammed up your *cough cough* - alright?

And then! Saturday, the "Winter Sharing" is upon us, and while I look forward to watching my daughter perform, I'm feeling apprehensive about having to bring my other two children to watch. They take the classes too, but they aren't performing, which means that they will likely want to get up on stage and join in the fun, invited or not. The good-mom-faker voice will have to take on the hiss of tire with an air-leak so as not to disturb the musical program, and I figure I've got about a 50/50 chance of ruining somebody's home video, even with my husband and sister there to help run interference.

The sad thing is I'm confident in my parenting. I do not allow disruptive behavior, and as you can see, I plan for the best, but secretly expect the worst. I have an exit strategy for every event hardwired into my brain along with the location of every restroom.

Every successful outing is met with rejoicing. Every public display of demonic possession is a reminder that the parenting gods don't like rejoicing, and that I should think twice before taking kids with head colds to concerts.

It's going to be fine. It's going to be fine. It's going to be fine.

Or, hey! If it isn't, it will probably end up as a funny blog entry.