Yesterday was my daughter's first grade Halloween party. As a room parent, I had the privilege of assisting 20 six-year-olds change into their Halloween costumes in preparation for a thirty second parade around the parking lot. Two other mothers, including my co-chair, were supposed to assist with the dirty work, but both were conveniently delayed by a traffic jam caused by a scary clown holding a picket sign outside of the grocery store. That left me and the substitute (my daughter's teacher was out sick with the flu) to prepare the troops for battle.
Two of our soldiers refused to put on their costumes. Two others didn't celebrate Halloween. The remaining sixteen could be divided roughly into two groups: Autobots and characters from Disney made-for-TV movies. One little boy seemed embarrassed by his Halloween costume and refused to take it out of his backpack. When I saw what it was, I started hyperventilating.
"You are going to be a Franciscan friar from the Middle Ages?" I asked incredulously. "That is the coolest costume on the planet!"
The mention of the word "planet" sparked the interest of three Transformers, and they came over to investigate.
"Where did you get this?" I asked desperately, marveling at the authenticity of the period costume. "And what do your parents do for a living? And can I have their phone number? And do you know if this costume comes in adult sizes? And do you think your parents would want to come over for dinner sometime in the near future?"
As my interest in his costume and extended family grew, the boy began to wiggle uncomfortably in his seat. Finally he agreed to put the outfit on.
I made the mistake of clapping when the boy came out of the bathroom. I might have even jumped up in down in place a couple of times too, but I don't remember.
My enthusiasum was all the boy needed to change his mind. Eyes wide as saucers, he retreated slowly back into the bathroom. With a loud thud, he slammed the door.
Happy Halloween!
October 31, 2009
October 30, 2009
The Meanest Mom on the Mainline?!
Today an article about my blog is featured on AroundMainline.com, a fancy online Philadelphia magazine. As usual, everyone was on their best behavior during the photo shoot. Still, the photos by BUP Photography turned out gorgeous (especially the ones of my babe) and the publisher kindly edited out most of my weirdness. What more does a girl want?
October 29, 2009
Tutorial: Halloween Costumes for Academics
Most people can dress up as whatever/whoever they want for Halloween.
If you are an English professor/Humanities graduate student/undergraduate English major/enrolled in A.P. English in high school, however, your costume options are a bit more limited. The unspoken expectation is that you will dress up as a character from a novel. You get extra points if you pick a novel that is out of print, was written in England before 1950, or has won the Pulitzer Prize.
Example:
Scout from To Kill A Mockingbird= Good
The Whale from Moby Dick= Better
Susan from The Mayor of Casterbridge= Best
Take note: The point of dressing like characters from books that (sadly) few people read anymore is to show the world that you are A) not weird and B) have interests outside of literature.
This year, I'm going to push the envelope by dressing up as a medieval manuscript...one that is written in fourteenth-century Law French.
It goes without saying that I am going to be the most popular girl at the Halloween party that I'm attending this weekend. If I wasn't already married (darn it!), I could probably talk Mr. Darcy or Piggy from Lord of the Flies into taking me on a date.
If you are an English professor/Humanities graduate student/undergraduate English major/enrolled in A.P. English in high school, however, your costume options are a bit more limited. The unspoken expectation is that you will dress up as a character from a novel. You get extra points if you pick a novel that is out of print, was written in England before 1950, or has won the Pulitzer Prize.
Example:
Scout from To Kill A Mockingbird= Good
The Whale from Moby Dick= Better
Susan from The Mayor of Casterbridge= Best
Take note: The point of dressing like characters from books that (sadly) few people read anymore is to show the world that you are A) not weird and B) have interests outside of literature.
This year, I'm going to push the envelope by dressing up as a medieval manuscript...one that is written in fourteenth-century Law French.
It goes without saying that I am going to be the most popular girl at the Halloween party that I'm attending this weekend. If I wasn't already married (darn it!), I could probably talk Mr. Darcy or Piggy from Lord of the Flies into taking me on a date.
October 28, 2009
Mall-O-Ween
If you haven't taken your kids trick-or-treating at the mall, I highly recommend.
The annual Mall-O-Ween in Philadelphia serves two mutually beneficially purposes: it enables mall stores to fulfill the community service requirement in their leasing contracts, and it provides the opportunity for shoppers who haven't been to the mall since half of its stores went bankrupt to "fall in love all over again with style and fashion." At least that is what the banner above the elevator says.
Of course, my offspring needed no assistance in the fashion and design department. My trio paraded through the mall in their Halloween finest. Cortlen flat out refused to wear the costume that he had picked out three days earlier, declaring it repulsive and ugly. Kellen lasted a whopping five minute in his costume before stripping down to his street clothes. The reason: he saw a girl from school wearing the same outfit.
"You made me dress like a girl!" he screamed before stuffing the cheetah costume in the back of the stroller.
Seeing her brothers relieved of their costumes gave Camber all the encouragement she needed to disrobe in public as well.
"I don't want to be Cleopatra anymore!" she said, ripping off her fabric headpiece. When I made the unforgivable error of reaching for the object, she dangled it over the ledge of the second floor railing.
"All right, we're outta here," I said, herding three bad attitudes toward the door. I also mumbled something about ingrates and never doing this again but my thoughts were largely lost on my children, who at that point were engrossed in the task of separating the wheat from the chaff in their trick-or-treat buckets.
We were almost to the exit when we were stopped by a man-child in his early twenties. He was holding a bowl of candy and was standing next to a store that sells New Moon action figures and nose rings.
"What are you guys supposed to be?" the man asked my children sneeringly.
I didn't say anything, but I could have asked the same of him. The man was wearing a Speedo and roller skates.
And nothing else.
****
Have you had better luck with your kids' costumes? I hope so!
October 23, 2009
The Haunted House
Thanks to an eleven-year-old neighbor, my children now know the truth about our house; namely, that it's haunted. No one knows for sure who died in our house or when, but judging from the quantity of red carpet and green wallpaper that graced our humble abode at the time of our move-in, my best guess is Santa.
"There are no ghosts in this house," I assured my children. "Small rodents, maybe, but definitely no ghosts."
My children were more disappointed than relieved by this news. In protest, they've spent the past week trying to prove me wrong.
Early Tuesday morning, I opened the pantry door to retrieve some oatmeal and my daughter popped out. "Boo!" she screamed.
The first time that my kids startled me, it was funny. Ditto for the second and third times. By the fourteenth time, I started to fear for my children's safety.
"All of the ghosts need to disappear for awhile," I warned Kellen and Camber.
"Nuts!" shrieked Cortlen, tumbling out of the hall closet.
At 5:37am this morning, I felt the presence of a real-life apparition standing next to my bed. I opened my eyes to find Kellen three inches from my face.
"Boo!" he whispered.
"You've got to be kidding me," I growled. "Why aren't you in your bed?" I wanted to know.
"I don't feel so good," he explained. That's when I noticed my son's unnaturally pale skin.
When Cortlen stumbled in our room as white as a sheet a few hours later, I was forced to apologize.
"I stand corrected," I told my children. "There are ghosts in this house. And they have the flu."
October 22, 2009
Adventures in (a Philadelphia Burger King) Playland
On Monday, someone stole my son's sneakers from the shoe bin at the indoor playground at Burger King. Kellen was understandably confused and upset. I told him that whoever took the shoes probably needed them more than he did. This confused my son even more since the shoes were not new and had giant "K's" written all over the sides in black marker.
Last Monday at the same Burger King (I get around), I was standing in line when I noticed a man standing by the door. He looked hungry so when it was my turn to order, I offered to buy the man some lunch. He declined and said that he wasn't hungry. Twenty minutes later, the man hunted me down in the indoor playground and asked me for money. I told him that I would be happy to buy him some food, but that I wasn't going to give him cash. The man mumbled something under his breath and stormed out.
The Monday before that, at a different Burger King, my kids were eating lunch when a little boy about age five approached the table and picked a french fry off my son's plate and ran away. To our total surprise, a few minutes later, he did it again. This time, I followed the boy and found him hiding underneath a table in the far corner of the restaurant. When the boy approached the table for the third time, I cut him off at the pass and told him to pull up a chair.
All of this would be very funny....if it wasn't so terribly sad.
We are all very fortunate indeed.
Last Monday at the same Burger King (I get around), I was standing in line when I noticed a man standing by the door. He looked hungry so when it was my turn to order, I offered to buy the man some lunch. He declined and said that he wasn't hungry. Twenty minutes later, the man hunted me down in the indoor playground and asked me for money. I told him that I would be happy to buy him some food, but that I wasn't going to give him cash. The man mumbled something under his breath and stormed out.
The Monday before that, at a different Burger King, my kids were eating lunch when a little boy about age five approached the table and picked a french fry off my son's plate and ran away. To our total surprise, a few minutes later, he did it again. This time, I followed the boy and found him hiding underneath a table in the far corner of the restaurant. When the boy approached the table for the third time, I cut him off at the pass and told him to pull up a chair.
All of this would be very funny....if it wasn't so terribly sad.
We are all very fortunate indeed.
October 20, 2009
Labels
Kellen's kindergarten teacher preaches that the key to loss prevention is labeling personal effects with one's first and last name.
I applauded my son for printing his initials on every article of clothing in his closet, socks and underwear included.
I responded less favorably to the discovery of a "K" printed in black Sharpie on the back of one of my kitchen chairs.
******
Has your child ever labeled something that he/she shouldn't?
I applauded my son for printing his initials on every article of clothing in his closet, socks and underwear included.
I responded less favorably to the discovery of a "K" printed in black Sharpie on the back of one of my kitchen chairs.
******
Has your child ever labeled something that he/she shouldn't?
October 19, 2009
Knitting Porn
My next door neighbor Sandy has severe Rheumatoid Arthritis, which she exacerbates by gardening and knitting. This time last year, she knit Cameron a white blessing (Christening) blanket and three NICU hats. On Saturday, I returned from the grocery store to find an urgent voice mail message from her.
"I need your body," she said simply.
I was a little confused and frankly weirded out until Sandy clarified that she was knitting a sweater for her youngest daughter Mackenzie and intended to use me as a mannequin. I was, of course, happy to oblige since Mackenzie and I have identical body types, except for a two inch and twenty pound height and weight difference.
When I pointed this out to Sandy, she was understandably sympathetic. "Just suck in your stomach and wear a padded bra," she told me.
I brought my most compassionate child--Kellen--with me for moral support.
As I tried on the half-finished sweater, Kellen busied himself flipping through Sandy's knitting design books.
All of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks.
"Why is this girl?...." he asked, stopping mid-sentence. He pointed at a picture in the middle of one of the books.
I turned to find myself staring a photograph of a woman in a handmade sweater and underpants.
Sandy, who matured to adulthood in the sixties, smiled knowingly.
I was less than amused.
"What kind of hobby is this?" I asked pointing to her knitting paraphernalia. The basket of yarn looked innocent enough. Little did I know that it was part of Satan's slippery slide.
Sandy didn't defend her possession of knitting porn. Instead she asked me if I would be willing to try on the sweater again after she finished it.
I thought for a minute before I agreed. I told Sandy that I would model the sweater but not the underpants.
I prefer paper.
"I need your body," she said simply.
I was a little confused and frankly weirded out until Sandy clarified that she was knitting a sweater for her youngest daughter Mackenzie and intended to use me as a mannequin. I was, of course, happy to oblige since Mackenzie and I have identical body types, except for a two inch and twenty pound height and weight difference.
When I pointed this out to Sandy, she was understandably sympathetic. "Just suck in your stomach and wear a padded bra," she told me.
I brought my most compassionate child--Kellen--with me for moral support.
As I tried on the half-finished sweater, Kellen busied himself flipping through Sandy's knitting design books.
All of a sudden, he stopped in his tracks.
"Why is this girl?...." he asked, stopping mid-sentence. He pointed at a picture in the middle of one of the books.
I turned to find myself staring a photograph of a woman in a handmade sweater and underpants.
Sandy, who matured to adulthood in the sixties, smiled knowingly.
I was less than amused.
"What kind of hobby is this?" I asked pointing to her knitting paraphernalia. The basket of yarn looked innocent enough. Little did I know that it was part of Satan's slippery slide.
Sandy didn't defend her possession of knitting porn. Instead she asked me if I would be willing to try on the sweater again after she finished it.
I thought for a minute before I agreed. I told Sandy that I would model the sweater but not the underpants.
I prefer paper.
October 18, 2009
Wall Ball
I'm sitting at a picnic table at a local park with a group of kindergarten moms, some of whom I do know, most of whom I don't. We are gathered en masse to encourage our sons to burn off some energy and discuss important current events like what's on sale at Children's Place.
"What are they doing over there?" asked one of the moms, gesturing in the direction of the decrepit tennis court, where our collective offspring are gathered.
I didn't bother looking up as I was fairly certain that the answer would involve one of my sons scaling a chain link fence or poking something or someone with a long stick.
"As long as they're not over here, I don't care what they're doing!" chirped a woman named Marie as everyone else at the table stared at her with raised eyebrows.
Sensing one of my own, I instinctively scooted closer to this woman.
"That looks dangerous," observed a third mom, rising slightly out of her seat to get a closer look. When no one else joined her, she sat back down and began wringing her hands nervously.
When I finally looked up a few minutes later, I was not at all surprised to see half a dozen six-year-old boys lined up against the back wall of the tennis court. A seventh boy was standing about ten feet in front of the group. At his command, the group turned around and pressed their noses against the wall.
Marie let out a long, loud sigh and crossed her legs. "It's called Wall Ball,'" she told us, just as the boy retrieved a tennis ball from his pocket, took aim, and fired.
One of the boys was hit in the leg and started crying. Several mothers jumped to their feet.
"Since when is getting hurt 'fun'?" questioned one mother in despair.
"Who would play such a horrifically violent game?" wondered another.
It wasn't until these questions were posed that I realized why I found the game so strangely appealing; namely, it bore a striking resemblance to my favorite childhood past time, a game called Butts Up. The principle is the same, except in Butts Up, the bulls eye is an exposed butt cheek. Playing Butts Up in middle school is how I made all of my friends. It also earned me lots of detentions and a reputation as an exhibitionist.
The boy that got pelted by the ball turned out to be my son Kellen. He limped toward me and pulled up his pant's leg to reveal a quarter-sized welt on the back of his thigh.
The other mothers let out appropriately loud gasps of indignation.
"I have a first aid kit in my car!" volunteered one woman.
"I have one in my purse!" screeched another, reaching for her diaper bag.
"I got pegged with the ball," Kellen cried, pointing to his wound in between sobs.
"Isn't that the point?" I asked.
Kellen stopped crying long enough to re evaluate his goals.
"I got pegged with the ball!" he shouted exuberantly and ran back to the group, who took turns admiring the battle wound and vowing to get bigger and better ones in future rounds.
Against their mothers' wishes, the boys lined up for Round Two. Learning from their previous mistakes, they increased their chances of being hit by extending their arms and legs. Determined to catch the bouquet, my other son Cortlen wiggled his bottom as well.
My heart swelled with pride at this unprompted gesture.
Maybe there is hope for my children yet.
"What are they doing over there?" asked one of the moms, gesturing in the direction of the decrepit tennis court, where our collective offspring are gathered.
I didn't bother looking up as I was fairly certain that the answer would involve one of my sons scaling a chain link fence or poking something or someone with a long stick.
"As long as they're not over here, I don't care what they're doing!" chirped a woman named Marie as everyone else at the table stared at her with raised eyebrows.
Sensing one of my own, I instinctively scooted closer to this woman.
"That looks dangerous," observed a third mom, rising slightly out of her seat to get a closer look. When no one else joined her, she sat back down and began wringing her hands nervously.
When I finally looked up a few minutes later, I was not at all surprised to see half a dozen six-year-old boys lined up against the back wall of the tennis court. A seventh boy was standing about ten feet in front of the group. At his command, the group turned around and pressed their noses against the wall.
Marie let out a long, loud sigh and crossed her legs. "It's called Wall Ball,'" she told us, just as the boy retrieved a tennis ball from his pocket, took aim, and fired.
One of the boys was hit in the leg and started crying. Several mothers jumped to their feet.
"Since when is getting hurt 'fun'?" questioned one mother in despair.
"Who would play such a horrifically violent game?" wondered another.
It wasn't until these questions were posed that I realized why I found the game so strangely appealing; namely, it bore a striking resemblance to my favorite childhood past time, a game called Butts Up. The principle is the same, except in Butts Up, the bulls eye is an exposed butt cheek. Playing Butts Up in middle school is how I made all of my friends. It also earned me lots of detentions and a reputation as an exhibitionist.
The boy that got pelted by the ball turned out to be my son Kellen. He limped toward me and pulled up his pant's leg to reveal a quarter-sized welt on the back of his thigh.
The other mothers let out appropriately loud gasps of indignation.
"I have a first aid kit in my car!" volunteered one woman.
"I have one in my purse!" screeched another, reaching for her diaper bag.
"I got pegged with the ball," Kellen cried, pointing to his wound in between sobs.
"Isn't that the point?" I asked.
Kellen stopped crying long enough to re evaluate his goals.
"I got pegged with the ball!" he shouted exuberantly and ran back to the group, who took turns admiring the battle wound and vowing to get bigger and better ones in future rounds.
Against their mothers' wishes, the boys lined up for Round Two. Learning from their previous mistakes, they increased their chances of being hit by extending their arms and legs. Determined to catch the bouquet, my other son Cortlen wiggled his bottom as well.
My heart swelled with pride at this unprompted gesture.
Maybe there is hope for my children yet.
October 13, 2009
Columbus Day
Yesterday, my kids didn't have school. I had big plans to spend the day making pilgrim hats and
desecrating Native American burial mounds when my son ruined all of my fun.
"Columbus wasn't a pilgrim," he pointed out.
Unfortunately, none of my children are yet able to grasp the concept of "close enough."
****
In other heartwarming news, I got all the way to the grocery store check-out line this morning before my one-year-old tried to put my sweater label into his mouth, alerting me to the fact that I was wearing my shirt inside out and backwards.
desecrating Native American burial mounds when my son ruined all of my fun.
"Columbus wasn't a pilgrim," he pointed out.
Unfortunately, none of my children are yet able to grasp the concept of "close enough."
****
In other heartwarming news, I got all the way to the grocery store check-out line this morning before my one-year-old tried to put my sweater label into his mouth, alerting me to the fact that I was wearing my shirt inside out and backwards.
October 12, 2009
Vegetarianism 101
On Saturday, my husband took Kellen and Cortlen to a football game. Camber decided to stay home after I promised that she could invite a friend from school over to our house to play and eat dinner.
In an attempt to impress our guest, I offered to take my daughter and her friend to Taco Bell. As an added treat, I told the girls that they didn't have to limit their selections to the Value Menu. Just this once, they could order whatever they wanted. My daughter forced me to intervene when she ordered three bags of cinnamon twists and an extra large soda. Her friend, who claimed that she and her family were regular customers at the restaurant, ordered a Crunchwrap Supreme.
Sunny was half way through her meal when she told me that it was against her religion to eat meat.
My husband gave me the thumbs up sign through the receiver when I called to break the bad news.
To say the least, I felt awful. After a few minutes of wringing my hands and sweating bullets, I did all that I could do in such a situation: I apologized profusely to the girl's parents and told them that they could give my daughter a cigarette to make up for it.
Thankfully, the mom was very forgiving and told me not to worry about it.
I hope that if I am ever faced with a similar situation, I can be as equally gracious.
*****
Have you ever unknowingly given/fed/offered something to your child's friend that was against her family's moral/religious code? Ugh. I feel so dumb.
In an attempt to impress our guest, I offered to take my daughter and her friend to Taco Bell. As an added treat, I told the girls that they didn't have to limit their selections to the Value Menu. Just this once, they could order whatever they wanted. My daughter forced me to intervene when she ordered three bags of cinnamon twists and an extra large soda. Her friend, who claimed that she and her family were regular customers at the restaurant, ordered a Crunchwrap Supreme.
Sunny was half way through her meal when she told me that it was against her religion to eat meat.
My husband gave me the thumbs up sign through the receiver when I called to break the bad news.
To say the least, I felt awful. After a few minutes of wringing my hands and sweating bullets, I did all that I could do in such a situation: I apologized profusely to the girl's parents and told them that they could give my daughter a cigarette to make up for it.
Thankfully, the mom was very forgiving and told me not to worry about it.
I hope that if I am ever faced with a similar situation, I can be as equally gracious.
*****
Have you ever unknowingly given/fed/offered something to your child's friend that was against her family's moral/religious code? Ugh. I feel so dumb.
October 11, 2009
The Room Mother Halloween Party
The most recent thorn in my side is my assistant room mother, a woman named Melanie. Technically, Melanie and I share the title of room mother, but I've already secretly demoted her. Don't get me wrong; Melanie is a perfectly nice person. My husband thinks that's part of the problem. In the fifteen total minutes that I've spent with Melanie, I learned that she gets a 25% discount at the local craft store and has been a room mother for six consecutive years. Melanie is also a licensed nurse and gets to wear white clogs and a stethoscope around her neck all day.
Now you can see why I can't work with her. I seethe with jealousy.
On Friday, Melanie and I met with our children's first grade teacher, who told us that we are responsible for the class Halloween party. The party is supposed to last 45 minutes and is to include a costume parade around the school parking lot, a game, a snack, and an age-appropriate craft.
After the meeting was over, I made Melanie a very generous offer: I would take charge of the Halloween party if she would coordinate the Thanksgiving Feast.
Melanie smiled politely and told me that she would rather work on both parties together.
"Are you okay?" Melanie asked a few seconds later.
I lied and told her that my twitch of annoyance was really a facial tic.
"I have a craft idea," I said, ignoring her suggestion that we brainstorm ideas together.
On cue, I produced a toilet paper pumpkin from my bag.
Melanie continued to smile politely but shook her head when I asked her if she wanted to hold the pumpkin.
"That's very nice," she said, "But sadly, I don't think that's a realistic craft for this school," she told me. She went on to point out the fact that we couldn't solicit monetary donations for class parties and that parental response to requests for supplies was spotty at best.
I began to resent having an assistant and wondered if I could fire her.
"You'd better watch it," husband warned, "Or she's going to fire you."
The fear of losing the job and my position of superiority put things in perspective. I instantly shaped up and gave the green light to an exciting and totally unique game called "Pin the Hat on the Witch."
That was Friday. Yesterday at my daughter's soccer game, another room mother from the school asked me what I'm planning to be.
I didn't know what she was talking about until she informed me that all of the room moms traditionally wear costumes to the Halloween parties.
Some good ideas take weeks to germinate before they take root. Others blossom instantly.
"I'm going to be a nurse," I announced.
I told the woman that I would be wearing handmade scrubs made out of fabric purchased with a 25% off coupon from the craft store. I left out the fact that my name badge will read "Head Nurse" and instead of wearing one stethoscope around my neck, I will have two.
October 7, 2009
What Might Have Been
Have you ever had a carrot dangled in front of you, only to have it cruelly and maliciously snatched away at the last minute?
Such is the case with my community education literature course.
A few months back, I interviewed to teach a Chaucer course at at local senior center, but was asked to lead a book group on Twilight instead. I didn't have a problem with the syllabus switch-a-roo because the texts in question are of equal literary merit and as such, are pretty much interchangeable.
I have spent the better part of the past four months preparing for the course by watching clips from the movie on YouTube and buying up "I heart Edward" mood rings on the Internet. To my utter despair, this morning I received a phone call from Pauline, my semi-coherent contact at the Community Education Office. She had bad news. The course was being canceled due to low enrollment!
WHAT?!
She went onto explain that the enrollment issue was a mute point: at the eleventh hour, the Board of Directors decided to pull the Twilight class from their list of course offerings because they deemed it too controversial and too racy.
Pauline concluded the conversation with a gesture of sympathy and goodwill. She asked if I would be willing to teach something with more mass appeal and fewer sexual overtones...like the Merchant's Tale.
Such is the case with my community education literature course.
A few months back, I interviewed to teach a Chaucer course at at local senior center, but was asked to lead a book group on Twilight instead. I didn't have a problem with the syllabus switch-a-roo because the texts in question are of equal literary merit and as such, are pretty much interchangeable.
I have spent the better part of the past four months preparing for the course by watching clips from the movie on YouTube and buying up "I heart Edward" mood rings on the Internet. To my utter despair, this morning I received a phone call from Pauline, my semi-coherent contact at the Community Education Office. She had bad news. The course was being canceled due to low enrollment!
WHAT?!
She went onto explain that the enrollment issue was a mute point: at the eleventh hour, the Board of Directors decided to pull the Twilight class from their list of course offerings because they deemed it too controversial and too racy.
Pauline concluded the conversation with a gesture of sympathy and goodwill. She asked if I would be willing to teach something with more mass appeal and fewer sexual overtones...like the Merchant's Tale.
October 6, 2009
Birthday Treats
Kellen and Cortlen recently had birthdays. In honor of the special occasion, their teachers agreed to let them bring in a special treat to share with their classmates. Kellen's first choice was miniature bean burritos , but he made it clear that he would also be okay with shrimp cocktail or grilled salmon and peas.
Unlike his brother, Cortlen wanted something much more sensible--boiled pot stickers with wasabi dipping sauce.
"How about brownies?" I suggested. "Or what about cupcakes?"
With some gentle nudging, Kellen took the bait. Cortlen on the other hand, would have none of it.
"I want that," he said firmly, pointing to a picture of a loaf of pumpkin bread in one of my cookbooks.
I tried to explain that most children had a hard enough time being talked into eating regular bread, much less bread that was orange.
He could not be deterred and I wasn't about to rain on his parade so I made two loaves of the said bread and sent him on his way with a cautious reminder.
"Don't be offended if people don't like your snack," I told him.
I shouldn't have worried. The bread received rave reviews.
"Everyone ate one bite of bread," Cortlen told me when he came home.
"That's good," I replied, slightly encouraged.
"Because the teacher made them try it."
Suddenly, I felt less encouraged.
"Then they spit it in their napkins and threw it away," he continued.
"That's okay," I replied, trying to find the silver lining in so much waste.
"I should have brought the pot stickers," he said solemnly.
I couldn't help but agree.
******
Has your child ever insisted on bringing an unconventional snack to school? If so, what?
Unlike his brother, Cortlen wanted something much more sensible--boiled pot stickers with wasabi dipping sauce.
"How about brownies?" I suggested. "Or what about cupcakes?"
With some gentle nudging, Kellen took the bait. Cortlen on the other hand, would have none of it.
"I want that," he said firmly, pointing to a picture of a loaf of pumpkin bread in one of my cookbooks.
I tried to explain that most children had a hard enough time being talked into eating regular bread, much less bread that was orange.
He could not be deterred and I wasn't about to rain on his parade so I made two loaves of the said bread and sent him on his way with a cautious reminder.
"Don't be offended if people don't like your snack," I told him.
I shouldn't have worried. The bread received rave reviews.
"Everyone ate one bite of bread," Cortlen told me when he came home.
"That's good," I replied, slightly encouraged.
"Because the teacher made them try it."
Suddenly, I felt less encouraged.
"Then they spit it in their napkins and threw it away," he continued.
"That's okay," I replied, trying to find the silver lining in so much waste.
"I should have brought the pot stickers," he said solemnly.
I couldn't help but agree.
******
Has your child ever insisted on bringing an unconventional snack to school? If so, what?
October 5, 2009
There IS Such a Thing as a FREE LUNCH
"Did you have a good day at school today?" I asked my daughter as she hopped off the school bus last Thursday.
Camber nodded her head and rubbed her belly. "I had popcorn chicken and chocolate milk today for lunch!" she chirped.
"Huh?" I asked, confused. I was fairly certain that the peanut butter sandwich that I had put in her lunchbox that morning wasn't capable of such an extreme makeover.
"How did you buy lunch?" I asked. "I didn't give you any money."
My daughter looked at me like I was missing a few marbles. "You don't need any money to buy lunch," she explained. "You just give the lunch lady your student ID number, and she gives you a tray."
This was how I learned about the elementary school's credit program. Instead of sending your children to school with wads of cash each day, parents are encouraged to deposit money into a special cafeteria account. For unexplained reasons, the school allows children without accounts to buy lunches on credit as well.
I was scared to ask the next question, but I did anyway.
"How many free lunches have you received since school started?" I asked.
My daughter shrugged her shoulders. "Like a million," she replied.
I smiled through gritted teeth.
The next day, I received a bill in the mail for $41.60, the cost of 16 school lunches.
This morning, I solidified my claim to the title of the Meanest Mom in America by firing off a cease-and-desist letter to the school cafeteria.
October 2, 2009
Fundraising Coupon Books
"What are you doing right now?"
This is how my friend Tina started our phone conversation last night.
I had a bad feeling that my answer would be insufficient to escape whatever form of manual labor was needed.
"I'm reading Dante's Divine Comedy," I replied.
Tina let out a loud snort before demanding my immediate presence in her kitchen.
Ten minutes later, I descended into Hell by way of 27 boxes of coupon books.
Tina claimed to be high on St. John's wort when she volunteered to head up the Fall fundraising campaign at our children's elementary school. She had an official committee at some point, but during the first planning meeting successfully alienated all of its members by refusing to allow them to chain smoke in her living room.
"You're my only hope," she told me.
I liked the idea of being a good Samaritan, so I took Tina's plea for help seriously. I also like Italian cream cakes and finally agreed to help my friend if she agreed to make me one with extra frosting.
"I need you to number all of those books," Tina said, pointing to Mount Everest.
The seemingly simple task of labeling 634 coupon books was made difficult by the fact that it required me to count in consecutive numbers past 100.
"Crapola!" Tina shouted after she inspected my work. "You skipped number 232 and labeled at least two other books 313."
Without further ado, I was relieved of my responsibilities and demoted to bagger. I spent the next several hours putting individual coupon books into individual plastic shopping bags. According to Tina, every student in the elementary school would been sent home with a book that contained coupons and special offers that could be readily be found on the Internet and in mailbox circulars. There was absolutely no obligation to purchase the books. Parents who kept the books would be charged $25 and entered into a lottery to win a dinner at a local steakhouse. Those who returned their books would be accused of being cheap and having no school spirit.
Flipping through one of the books gave me a good idea. What if I ripped the only good coupon--a BOGO Chick-fil-A offer--out of each book?
Tina rolled her eyes and informed me that I would have to be more creative. That had already been done by a member of last year's committee. So had stealing 25 books and selling them on Craigslist.
My heart sank. What would be my contribution to this year's catastrophe?
Tina eyed me suspiciously and crossed herself. Then she muttered something I couldn't understand in Italian.
"I've decided that I'm not going to send any coupon books home with your kids," she said suddenly.
I felt excluded, hurt, and betrayed. Once the cloud of indignation cleared, I realized that my kids would not be sent home with coupon books. That's when I saw Virgil. He was standing, arms outstretched, by an aquarium of sea monkeys in Tina's kitchen.
"Welcome to Paradise," he said.
Without further ado, I was relieved of my responsibilities and demoted to bagger. I spent the next several hours putting individual coupon books into individual plastic shopping bags. According to Tina, every student in the elementary school would been sent home with a book that contained coupons and special offers that could be readily be found on the Internet and in mailbox circulars. There was absolutely no obligation to purchase the books. Parents who kept the books would be charged $25 and entered into a lottery to win a dinner at a local steakhouse. Those who returned their books would be accused of being cheap and having no school spirit.
Flipping through one of the books gave me a good idea. What if I ripped the only good coupon--a BOGO Chick-fil-A offer--out of each book?
Tina rolled her eyes and informed me that I would have to be more creative. That had already been done by a member of last year's committee. So had stealing 25 books and selling them on Craigslist.
My heart sank. What would be my contribution to this year's catastrophe?
Tina eyed me suspiciously and crossed herself. Then she muttered something I couldn't understand in Italian.
"I've decided that I'm not going to send any coupon books home with your kids," she said suddenly.
I felt excluded, hurt, and betrayed. Once the cloud of indignation cleared, I realized that my kids would not be sent home with coupon books. That's when I saw Virgil. He was standing, arms outstretched, by an aquarium of sea monkeys in Tina's kitchen.
"Welcome to Paradise," he said.
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