Murphy's Magnificence

The night was horribly bittersweet. I hate going out after I've crash-landed at home but my son's recital was at 6:00. It was his father's week, and when I called.  He had already been picked up at daycare and  gone home, but the center was told that he would be back for the show. 

To be polite, his father isn't the exactly reliable when it comes to timeliness; to be polite, I had my doubts he would even show up.

I had exactly 30 minutes to debate the Murphy's Law bluff that if I went, my son would miss it, with the contra-indicative of the idea that if I missed it, he would be able to go.  I sucked it up and went, knowing that at least i tried; I couldn't control the inciting force otherwise known as the ex-husband.

I went through the inner montage of sadness, anger, frustration, "I knew this would happen" (among other, less-polite, inner dialogue) as the myriad teachers asked me where my son was.

I watched the show in its entirety, listening to his teacher say all of his lines.  My heart tightened into a fist that both squelched in my sorrow and tightened into anger.

Around the corner, a highly expectant and familiar face arrived as the parents and students dispersed to devour the cake.  It was the first time I had seen him in a suit. He was so handsome in pin-stripes and fancy man-shoes, my throat choked; I hardly knew what to do or say and doubted my ability to do either without breaking down into tears.

He'd missed it.

I was lost, but somehow managed a forced smile through my swollen throat and was able to comment on how handsome he looked. 

Then I heard a magical sound.  Teachers really are angels.  It was that moment, as my voice cracked that his teacher announced a special reprieve; the kindergardeners would preform an encore show -this time with the full ensemble cast.  My little man was great.  No.  

He was magnificent.