Death by Chocolate

Every December, my elementary school's PTA hosts a holiday basket auction. Each classroom in the school is assigned a basket theme, a disproportionate number of which include the word "Italy" (ie. "A Night out in Italy," "Breakfast in Italy," "Under the Tuscan Sun"). My daughter's teacher was one of the unfortunate few who were absent on the day that the lots were cast. As a result, she got stuck with a theme that lacks any overt reference to the Motherland.

"Our theme is 'Death by Chocolate,'" she apologized.

I attempted to alleviate the teacher's feelings of failure and ancestral shame by suggesting that we fill the basket with Italian chocolates. The letter I mailed to my daughter's classmates' parents asking for donations reiterated this request.

My plea for assistance was heard and answered. Here is what was sent in:


As room mother, my job is to tastefully assemble the donations in a large basket. The baskets will be auctioned off at the annual holiday family dance next weekend.

For several reasons, I am expecting that my basket will draw a record number of bids.

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Any similar tales of agony?

The First Grade Halloween Party

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!