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.

(photo and how-to from Chocolate on my Cranium)

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.