Remember how I was wondering whether joining that other school board was a good decision? Well, after having six hours of meetings in the last seven days, I think I have my answer.
So classic parenting scenario to write about today. #1 comes home from school and tells me some kid in her class is bothering her. I brace myself, ready to hear a horror story of schoolyard taunting, when she tells me this kid who sits in her "pod"* is being rude to her and her friend. OK, I think. So she's not being singled out and being made the class pariah, so my blood pressure drops a few points, and I can halt my plan to corner this kid during the book fair and scare the ever-loving shit out of him. Apparently, this kid is telling #1 and her pal their writing is sloppy, or, after a harmless itch, accusing them of picking their noses, basically, general assholery. I breath a sigh of relief when she tells me he pretty much bothers all the girls in the class. I feel better, now what do I tell her to do?
My oldest has never really been teased all that much, but after five years of school, obviously, this isn't the first she has had to deal with a mean kid. When she was very little, I would recommend PC responses to rude behavior such as, "That's mean and I'm not going to play with you", which were met with varying degrees of success. As she got older, I began to suggest more aggressive comebacks, in proportion to the aggression of the offender. I even gave her permission to use the "S word" and tell mean kids to "shut up".
The problem is mean kids really don't give a shit. No matter how witty your comeback these little jerks have a pretty thick skin. It's like they have blessed with such a positive self-concept, nothing gets through. Meanwhile, my kid, like her mother at that age, is wounded by the smallest slight and can't process the fact that someone would act that way. I can practically see her stammering, trying to come up with a remark after she has been stung.
So, in this most recent scenario, I, again, went through all my tried and true bits of advice like "ignore him", and "tell him to shut up", when I had an epiphany. I remembered my own failed childhood attempts at bravado, that ended in mockery. Dickheads can sense your discomfort at being confrontational and your efforts only result in more harassment, which is exactly what #1 told me is happening with this little jerk when she does try to stand up to him. So I decided to level with her. I told her she could try all the things I told her to do, and if it ever got really bad she could talk to her teacher or I would (which she is loathe to have happen, not wanting to be a tattletale), but, I confessed to her, in the end, some people are just jerks. Until they see the error in their ways, and are ready to stop being jerks, you just have to put up with them the best you can. I wanted to go on to tell her, some people never change and TJ** will most likely go on to be the asshole holding the tap at a frat party, and will return to their class reunion a fat, bloated, divorced sales trader, still convinced the sun shines out of his ass, but life will teach her that lesson. I just didn't want to send her away with some pat answer thinking I had solved her problem. I wanted her to know I knew how frustrating this situation was and I was hear to listen.
Sometimes in parenting, the best thing to do is commiserate. I told her stories about my 5th grade nemesis Vito, who mocked a sweatshirt that was my particular favorite, that I refused to stop wearing. I told her the same useless advice her grandmother had given me. I think it made her feel better knowing she wasn't the only one and that she had been heard. Because, really, in the end, that is what any of us want when we complain about an unsolvable problem, whether it's a difficult co-worker or a husband who can't put his dirty underwear in the hamper. So why should kids be treated any differently? You wouldn't want your friend, when you bitch to her about your skid-mark boxer problem, to say, "Just tell him to stop, OK?" You want her to tell you, "Ugh, that sucks", and for her to share a domestic misery of her own. I know it's different with kids, that they are looking for answers, but when there are none, relating to the suckage of having to sit with a jerk-off until school ends can ease some of the pain.
Besides, he'll get his comeuppance. Being such a joiner at the school, I am the pizza day and ice cream day mom. You know who's getting all the small slices and the melted Chipwhich now, don't you?
*When did sitting in groups become the norm? I did it myself as a teacher, but damn, some personal space is nice. Would you want to sit facing someone all day long? Sometimes you just want to stare at the back of some kid's head and space out.
**All names have been changed to protect myself. I could give a shit about this kid.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Dear Watermelon,
I trudged through the rain on Monday, armed with my impossibly long grocery list and a large coffee, ready to begin the marathon* that is grocery shopping for five people, already grumpy because it was pissing rain and, having just returned from my Mother's Day Weekend with S at the W Hotel, I was wondering where were all the beautiful gay men to offer to push my cart and perhaps get me a bottle of water**. And there you were, shining, despite a thin coat of dirt, like a beacon of hope for the summer to come. Memorial Day is next weekend, so your appearance should not have been such a surprise, but with an audible gasp, I snatched you up and put you in my cart. And here's where I start to fall out of love with you, Watermelon.
The initial joy I felt upon seeing you, imagining tupperwares full of your flesh being devoured, poolside, by my children, begins to fade as I heave your fat ass from the display. My palms and chest are now smeared with gritty mud, the soil from your underbelly having mixed nicely with the rainwater all over my jacket. Now where to put you? They have yet to invent a drops-side grocery cart, and while I am tall enough to drop you into the main compartment of my rig, heaving you back out as you roll around its depths at checkout might result in a back injury. Mercifully, I was alone, otherwise you'd be riding shotgun in the car-cart, or petri dish, as like to call it, that Little Man prefers. So under the cart you go, as the grate down there will prevent any rolling. Or so I think. Taking a corner too fast out of produce, since I have exactly seventy minutes to shop, checkout, get home and put away enough food for an army (an army fueled by Go-gurts and bananas), you dive-bomb out of the cart and skid into the liquor department. Perhaps you were reminding me to buy wine.
After heaving you back into the cart, the rest of the trip goes well, if not a bit slower, as your heft and precarious position makes turning the cart much harder. At checkout, I get the bright idea to take your sticker off so the elderly female cashier who always comments on how much milk I buy, can scan you without my having to lift you yet again. No dice. The bar code on your sticker is defective, forcing me to plop you on the conveyor belt and watch you back roll, fighting any forward progression toward the scanner, where The Milk Police will sigh dramatically as she has to move you from the scale to the counter. Then I get to wrestle you back under the cart, from which you will escape again, almost causing an accident, as I push the cart along the downward slope of the parking lot.
During the car ride home, you will roll about the main compartment of the van, crushing empty juice boxes and the bread I have just bought. No matter how securely I pin you between twelve packs of soda, you manage to free yourself. I have tried every location in the van. Between the seats, on the seats, in LM car seat, and you always wind up on top of the Reduced Fat Lays. True, I could put you in the trunk, but that is full with two strollers and bag of clothes I've been meaning to donate.
Finally, we arrive home and I get you into the kitchen, where the floor is now covered in the same sludge I am. Now it's bath time, as I dump your rotundness into the kitchen sink to prevent this filth from getting all over everything when I cut you up. Getting you back out of the sink is a comedy of errors, since I am either faced with the "greased pig" scenario trying to lift you out wet, or the "baby melon" swaddling you with kitchen towels I will immediately have to launder since, they too, will become muddy. Note to watermelon farmers, I know you think the dirt is kitschy, and proof these are really, genuine watermelons, but I believe you already. A squirt with the hose after harvesting would go a long way.
Now comes the butchering. Placing you on a cutting board, you teeter perilously, causing me to pray I get out of this with all of my digits intact, since your movement and H's insistence I not ruin any of his good knives butchering melons, means I and stabbing forcefully at a moving object with a dull butcher knife I bought at Bed, Bath & Beyond ten years ago. I get you cracked open down the middle, so at least there is a semi-flat surface to rest you on, and this is where it is either jackpot or bust. After all the work to get to this point, and then see a crack,ed dry center, or a mushy pile of slop is enough to make my scream - but not enough to make me take you back to the store. I've seen people return unsatisfactory produce, but they're usually old and it's pint of blueberries. Am I supposed to throw you in a Hefty bag and drag your carcass to Customer Service to get my six bucks back? My time is worth more than that I think.
Most times, you are nice and ripe though, which means my counters are now a sea of watermelon juice which will eventually drip all over the floor, causing it to be sticky until the dog licks it up or the cleaning lady comes. Usually the former. I spend the next twenty minutes hacking off slices, then cutting the flesh out of those slices into non-choking hazard cubes. At this point your rind becomes an issue. I have two choices, neither of which are good. I can take the bag out of the can to prevent weight-induced ripping, and subsequent cursing and fit-throwing, when I remove the bag after I'm done, or take the bag out and leave it open on the floor to spill its contents each time I drop in a rind, causing the dog to have a joy-seizure as he finds orange peels and chicken bones skittering across the kitchen floor. Six of shitty, half a dozen of crappy if you ask me.
Finally, finally, I am done. I clean up all your juice, rind, and any mud that has escaped the hosedown. I heave the gigantic bag of garbage out the back door and leave it on the deck, instead of taking it down to the garbage cans under the deck, since it's so heavy. H will literally step over it as he goes to walk the dog tonight and Reilly will get his chicken bones anyway when he is let out to do his business in the morning and chews a hole in the bag. This time it comes with a watermelon rind salad. When he chokes to death we are both going to hell.
The kids see the giant tub of melon and gleefully begin to stuff their faces. Do you know, Watermelon, you have a laxative effect? I do, and will get the joy of experiencing it in two hours with Little Man. I eventually cut them all off after they have eaten nearly their body weight in you, and put your container away for tomorrow. That evening I will snag a few pieces and call out to H as I got to bed, "There's watermelon. Stay away from the ice cream!"
Tomorrow dawns, and as I drag my tired ass into the kitchen, and run the hot water to heat up my coffee mug, I notice, in the sink, a container that was too large to fit in the dishwasher, left there by a husband too lazy to wash it. It's your container, watermelon and you are already gone.
This post should make you feel pretty special, Watermelon. You must be some kind of awesome for me to go through this kind of work for roughly twelve hours of enjoyment. And you are. Despite all my bitching, you are the herald of good times to come. You are quite the good time fruit. Nothing un-fun is watermelon flavored - gum, Italian ice, the sherbet in that weird Friendly's "Wattamelon" roll, a certain lemonade and watermelon cocktail H makes - so having you around means fun is right around the corner.
Now if only the pre-cut stuff wasn't as much as my weekly coffee bill.
*Seriously, I can't get it all in one cart.
**The best weekend ever. I called for a cab and when we arrived downstairs, I was informed, by the African American, male concierge with the blue contact lenses and false eyelashes, that not only did he love my hair and my (fake) Tory Burch bag, but that the W's Acura would drive us to our location gratis. If he had handed me a drink I might have thought I had died and gone to heaven.
The initial joy I felt upon seeing you, imagining tupperwares full of your flesh being devoured, poolside, by my children, begins to fade as I heave your fat ass from the display. My palms and chest are now smeared with gritty mud, the soil from your underbelly having mixed nicely with the rainwater all over my jacket. Now where to put you? They have yet to invent a drops-side grocery cart, and while I am tall enough to drop you into the main compartment of my rig, heaving you back out as you roll around its depths at checkout might result in a back injury. Mercifully, I was alone, otherwise you'd be riding shotgun in the car-cart, or petri dish, as like to call it, that Little Man prefers. So under the cart you go, as the grate down there will prevent any rolling. Or so I think. Taking a corner too fast out of produce, since I have exactly seventy minutes to shop, checkout, get home and put away enough food for an army (an army fueled by Go-gurts and bananas), you dive-bomb out of the cart and skid into the liquor department. Perhaps you were reminding me to buy wine.
After heaving you back into the cart, the rest of the trip goes well, if not a bit slower, as your heft and precarious position makes turning the cart much harder. At checkout, I get the bright idea to take your sticker off so the elderly female cashier who always comments on how much milk I buy, can scan you without my having to lift you yet again. No dice. The bar code on your sticker is defective, forcing me to plop you on the conveyor belt and watch you back roll, fighting any forward progression toward the scanner, where The Milk Police will sigh dramatically as she has to move you from the scale to the counter. Then I get to wrestle you back under the cart, from which you will escape again, almost causing an accident, as I push the cart along the downward slope of the parking lot.
During the car ride home, you will roll about the main compartment of the van, crushing empty juice boxes and the bread I have just bought. No matter how securely I pin you between twelve packs of soda, you manage to free yourself. I have tried every location in the van. Between the seats, on the seats, in LM car seat, and you always wind up on top of the Reduced Fat Lays. True, I could put you in the trunk, but that is full with two strollers and bag of clothes I've been meaning to donate.
Finally, we arrive home and I get you into the kitchen, where the floor is now covered in the same sludge I am. Now it's bath time, as I dump your rotundness into the kitchen sink to prevent this filth from getting all over everything when I cut you up. Getting you back out of the sink is a comedy of errors, since I am either faced with the "greased pig" scenario trying to lift you out wet, or the "baby melon" swaddling you with kitchen towels I will immediately have to launder since, they too, will become muddy. Note to watermelon farmers, I know you think the dirt is kitschy, and proof these are really, genuine watermelons, but I believe you already. A squirt with the hose after harvesting would go a long way.
Now comes the butchering. Placing you on a cutting board, you teeter perilously, causing me to pray I get out of this with all of my digits intact, since your movement and H's insistence I not ruin any of his good knives butchering melons, means I and stabbing forcefully at a moving object with a dull butcher knife I bought at Bed, Bath & Beyond ten years ago. I get you cracked open down the middle, so at least there is a semi-flat surface to rest you on, and this is where it is either jackpot or bust. After all the work to get to this point, and then see a crack,ed dry center, or a mushy pile of slop is enough to make my scream - but not enough to make me take you back to the store. I've seen people return unsatisfactory produce, but they're usually old and it's pint of blueberries. Am I supposed to throw you in a Hefty bag and drag your carcass to Customer Service to get my six bucks back? My time is worth more than that I think.
Most times, you are nice and ripe though, which means my counters are now a sea of watermelon juice which will eventually drip all over the floor, causing it to be sticky until the dog licks it up or the cleaning lady comes. Usually the former. I spend the next twenty minutes hacking off slices, then cutting the flesh out of those slices into non-choking hazard cubes. At this point your rind becomes an issue. I have two choices, neither of which are good. I can take the bag out of the can to prevent weight-induced ripping, and subsequent cursing and fit-throwing, when I remove the bag after I'm done, or take the bag out and leave it open on the floor to spill its contents each time I drop in a rind, causing the dog to have a joy-seizure as he finds orange peels and chicken bones skittering across the kitchen floor. Six of shitty, half a dozen of crappy if you ask me.
Finally, finally, I am done. I clean up all your juice, rind, and any mud that has escaped the hosedown. I heave the gigantic bag of garbage out the back door and leave it on the deck, instead of taking it down to the garbage cans under the deck, since it's so heavy. H will literally step over it as he goes to walk the dog tonight and Reilly will get his chicken bones anyway when he is let out to do his business in the morning and chews a hole in the bag. This time it comes with a watermelon rind salad. When he chokes to death we are both going to hell.
The kids see the giant tub of melon and gleefully begin to stuff their faces. Do you know, Watermelon, you have a laxative effect? I do, and will get the joy of experiencing it in two hours with Little Man. I eventually cut them all off after they have eaten nearly their body weight in you, and put your container away for tomorrow. That evening I will snag a few pieces and call out to H as I got to bed, "There's watermelon. Stay away from the ice cream!"
Tomorrow dawns, and as I drag my tired ass into the kitchen, and run the hot water to heat up my coffee mug, I notice, in the sink, a container that was too large to fit in the dishwasher, left there by a husband too lazy to wash it. It's your container, watermelon and you are already gone.
This post should make you feel pretty special, Watermelon. You must be some kind of awesome for me to go through this kind of work for roughly twelve hours of enjoyment. And you are. Despite all my bitching, you are the herald of good times to come. You are quite the good time fruit. Nothing un-fun is watermelon flavored - gum, Italian ice, the sherbet in that weird Friendly's "Wattamelon" roll, a certain lemonade and watermelon cocktail H makes - so having you around means fun is right around the corner.
Now if only the pre-cut stuff wasn't as much as my weekly coffee bill.
*Seriously, I can't get it all in one cart.
**The best weekend ever. I called for a cab and when we arrived downstairs, I was informed, by the African American, male concierge with the blue contact lenses and false eyelashes, that not only did he love my hair and my (fake) Tory Burch bag, but that the W's Acura would drive us to our location gratis. If he had handed me a drink I might have thought I had died and gone to heaven.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Just when I thought I was out...they pull me back in!
So the school year is winding down, and while I begin to dream of summer and field trips with the kids, spring also means preparing for the upcoming school year. Pre-registration begins for activities like soccer and dance, and organizing committees, who lose members as children age and prepare to move onto middle school and high school, begin to look for new blood to fill their ranks. This is where the title of today's post comes into play.* A little history first...
Seven years ago, I was a newly minted mother of two, when I enrolled #1 in mildly educational babysitting, also known widely as preschool. The school I chose was a "cooperative" school, which means, in order to keep costs down, each family has a job to keep the school running, such as buying the juice in bulk at BJ's, or taking the recycling to the center each month. I was put on the cleaning committee, and spend one night every few months wiping everything in the class room down with a bleach solution. My father in-law still tells the tale of his "co-op" experience, where he was assigned to clean out the rabbit cage, so not having to handle rodent shit, I got off easy.
Half-way through #1's school year, a sign went up advertising for new board members. I thought to myself, "I was a teacher. I'm home with the kids. Isn't this one of those things I saw myself doing?" So I called the current board president and asked which positions were open. After being reassured none were too much work, I selected Buildings and Grounds Manager which would consist of organizing the school cleanings I myself had been participating in, and buying new play equipment for the school. If there was a problem I would deal with it, but things usually ran pretty smoothly.
Fast forward three months, and I am on the playground dismantling a jungle gym by hand and tearing up the rubber mats in order for the play area to be repaved. A few months later, I am priming walls for the muralist to paint. Then the outdoor storage sheds collapsed and needed to be demolished and removed. What happened to the bleach spray and buying Big Wheels? I did enjoy being on the board though, which allowed me to see the inner workings of the school administration and to help make major budget and staff decisions. So as my term came to a close, I duped the next poor soul into thinking this position was a piece of cake and hot-footed it to Registration.
To make a long story short, seven years later, I am still on the board, having held a variety of positions and serving as president twice. I am now a "Trustee" which means I show up to meetings to give the board the benefit of my experience, and not much else. I have comfortably been put out to pasture, which is fine, since next year is Little Man's last at the school, and I can start planning how I will use that money for shoes. I began to think how nice it would be to no longer have meetings to attend at night and parents to cajole into fulfilling their contractual responsibilities to clean the school kitchenette once a month, or to pay their tuition on time. I was ready to be done.
And then the call came this September. Could I be class mom for #2 at the elementary school in New Town? I thought to myself, "I was a teacher. I'm home with the kids. Isn't this one of those things I saw myself doing? AND it's not a board position." So I said yes. And thus, the flood gates opened. I volunteered for pizza day, bagel day and began working in the school library. The class parent thing is pretty minimal, I get to go on field trips, like to a mine last week, and got to see where they actually filmed the mine scene from Zoolander, (sadly, none of the other parents got my, "It's the black lung, Pop!" reference), but I do attend board meetings where I sit in silent observation, happy to not be one of the ladies at the head table. Much like the U. S. prior to WWI, my philosophy in New Town has been one of isolationism, I'll interact, but only when necessary.
The things I had volunteered to do require only my presence and an occasional email about the teacher's Christmas gift. I'm tired of having to deal with difficult parents who think these schools are run by magical elves who raise money for the new sandbox and want all the snacks, other people go to BJ's to buy, to be free of high-fructose corn syrup, and who need to be forced to participate in a constructive way. I say constructive,since I have had plenty of experience with parents who want to plan and execute nothing, but bitch about what others do in their stead. So no organizational roles for me, thanks! I am purely a drone, a worker bee! Tell me where to deliver these pizzas and bagels and let me use that cool scanner at the checkout desk!
And then the call came last week. My name had been brought up to the school board's nominating committee, and would I be interested in being VP of Fundraising? They've see my hard work and think I'd be great for the job, and I have an education background. And I thought to myself, "Stop and think about it, dummy!"
I mentioned this phone call to H. He smirked and said, "Here we go again." He said all along, I have too big a mouth and am too bossy to simply sit back and be one of the nameless masses. Which is a valid point, loud and bossy are two of my greatest charms, but that also makes the whole isolationist thing tough. Half the reason I've been keeping my trap shut is I know there are plenty of people at the preschool who did not enjoy my leadership style, but knowing we were moving, I didn't have to care. Being in New Town for good makes me reticent to open my trap at meetings to say, " I think five people have already made that point. Are we ready to vote?" Despite my fear that New Townians would (inevitably) discover my brash ways and lack of tolerance for nonsense, I found myself being drawn to this job. I had to ask myself, why was I being pulled back in? Little Man is getting bigger and soon I will have more time to write or maybe go back to school or get a part-time job. Why would I want to add to my never-completed-but-ever-growing to-do list?
I have to be honest, part of it is pride. I like that a group of women I don't know very well thinks I would be a good leader. As I have stated, and restated, being a stay-at-home mother comes with no glory, no job review, no pay check, to give you the shot in the arm we all need once in a while to feel like we're doing a good job. Having an outlet where my work would be tangible and appreciated is tempting. A lot of moms were once high-achieving women in work and school, what's wrong with using our skills to help our kids?
There is also the "somebody has to do it" argument. The do-nothings I mentioned above aren't going to run the Fun Fair or organize the school auction, so why shouldn't I? Or H asks, "Why should you?", since he envisions himself hauling linens off a party rental truck, which is probably a pretty accurate prediction. While the job description is deceptively simple, peppered with plenty of assurances that I would have help, I know reality can differ greatly from what is promised. Even with the best of intentions, I can see myself hauling boxes at the book fair and having to call and yell at the bagel guy when our delivery is late.
The question I really am asking myself is, is this a distraction? Will being busy with this kind of stuff take up so much mental space I won't have time to worry about where I'm going with this writing? Am I subconsciously sabotaging myself? Is this what women do? Fill up their lives to the max while their children are young, then, when there are no more committees to head or fundraisers to run, we are left feeling useless? To be honest, I really don't think this is what I'm doing, but it's still a niggling thought int he back of my mind, that I will have to stay vigilant about what it is I want, while doing this work, so that I have already started down the path to my own future, when the last of my kids goes off to college.
So in the end, I'm going to do it. I was a teacher, I'm home with the kids and this is one of those things I saw myself doing, but also, I want my kids to see that, even if it's not in an office, there is work to be done. I will be in the school more, which is something, as a child, I craved from my mother so much. I hope the smiles on their faces mean my kids feel the same little jolt of excitement when they see me in the school halls, that I felt when my working mother could take off work and come in. I want them to know their school matters to me enough to add it to my to-do list. And I want them to see that, no matter how full, I will manage to keep myself, and my dreams for myself, on that list as well.
*Sofia Coppola makes me want to pluck my own eyes out.
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