Tag Archives: kids

Volunteer They Said. It Would be Fun, They Said.

I have always wanted to be the working mom who could have her cake and eat it too. Preferably two slices.

This year, I decided, during the Meet the Teacher extravaganza, to volunteer for every field trip and room party for the year.

I think I ate the whole cake.

Honestly, after the first field trip to pick apples I forgot that I had volunteered for EVERY party. Then I got the email for the Halloween party and I remembered.

Fuck me. I am going to take time off work and spend it with 30 first graders. You couldn’t pay me enough money to do that. And, after going to these school events, my kid’s teacher does not get paid enough. I’d like to start a campaign to raise the pay of first grade teachers by 50%.

Pretty much, the parties consist of kids rotating from station to station making crafts, eating snacks and making enough noise to deafen everyone in a three-mile radius.

You know, the first few parties I was on ring toss and musical chairs patrol and it wasn’t terrible. Okay, it was. There were some really sweet kids, and I made it a point to talk to my son about them afterward and not so gently nudge him in their direction. And there were obnoxious kids and I prayed that he wasn’t friends with them.

“Gee, isn’t Olivia sweet? You should talk to her.” Or, “So… are you friends with Wyatt??? No? Well, maybe that’s best. I think you should definitely keep having lunch with Tyler.”

Once again, I don’t know how teachers handle it all. I had a few kids who came up that I could pinpoint as bullies. The cocky boys who would grab at the rings to toss, or the ones who would look at me with a raised eyebrow and ask, “So, whose mom are you?” Little shits. I hope they stay far away from my kid.

Then, there were the greedy kids. They wanted two turns, three prizes, and they would hang on me, hoping I would give in. If only I could have treated them the way I did my own children. I would have said, “Oh, hell no. Get your sorry ass in time out and stop begging.” Instead, I was all sunshine and saccharine, “No, no. You just get one lollipop. Now move on to the treat table.”

And, oh my Jesus. The treat table. There was one mom who made all the treats because she had one of those kids who can’t have gluten, or nuts or anything fun. But, seriously, I would have eaten her treats. She made GIANT Rice Krispie treats, coal made out of Oreos and marshmallows, mini cupcakes with hearts, and she brought the good juice boxes. Not the Honest Kids crap, but Hi-C fruit punch. When does she have time for this? I would have brought bagged graham crackers and store bought cupcakes, and then I would have thought I did an excellent job.

Each party was so painful, but I kept going back because my son seemed to love that I was there. And, frankly, I really didn’t know how long that would last. When will I become an embarrassment to him? When will I be banned from these parties?

Finally, I was vindicated. At the last party for Valentine’s Day, I was told that I was labeled by the kids as, “the fun mom.” Because of this, I was allowed to leave the purgatory of ring toss/musical chairs and man the Bingo table. I didn’t know I had been the bastard stepmother and relegated to the ring toss corner because no one knew what to do with me. I just thought that was where I was needed. Nay, nay. I was not cool enough for Bingo. Not until I was, “fun mom.”

Each kid grabbed at the giant rolling cage that housed the Bingo balls and wanted to turn it themselves. I relented and let each kid turn it once. One kid said breathlessly, “Even Max’s mom doesn’t let us turn the crank.”

Yes, that’s right I am cooler than Max’s mom. Suck it, judgy parents.

I still wanted to put the little bastards who clung to me and grabbed at the Bingo cage in time out, but I very gently encouraged them to fuck off.

Finally, the party was done and I could take my little boy home. He walked tall and held my hand on the way out. And that is what makes me the “cool mom.”

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Did I Really Just Say That?

There was so much that I did not expect when I became a parent; the mind-numbing exhaustion, wearing my child’s blowouts, and the things I would end up saying to my offspring. There is great joy in the stereotypical, “Because I said so,” or, “You get what you get and you don’t pitch a fit,” but then there are these choice nuggets:

  1. No, I will not wipe your butt. You’re 7. Which probably leads to…
  2. Please don’t wipe your poop on the wall. I mean, seriously. How messy can they get when wiping up? And how, after using a half a roll of toilet paper, do they still manage to get it all over their hands? And why do they think their poop hands should touch the wall? There is so much I just don’t understand.
  3. I don’t care how nicely you ask, you cannot have a Ring Pop for breakfast. My kids somehow think that if they put “please” in their request that I will acquiesce. Then, they are sent into hysterics when it doesn’t work. “But, you said to ask nicely! I did ask nicely! YOU LIED! I’m never going to ask nicely again. I’m going to eat this Ring Pop anyway! As soon as I can get it open!” Tears, rolling around on the floor, and leg kicks ensue.
  4. Why is there a used pull-up in the middle of your room? My daughter still uses a pull-up at night, because she has a bladder the size of, well, a small child’s bladder. I don’t care about pull-up use, as long as it doesn’t extend into the teen years, but what I do mind is going into her room after a long day and finding a sodden pull-up or two in the middle of her floor. Why doesn’t she throw it out? Does she like the smell of rotting urine in her room? Is it like fresh napalm for her? I mean, I don’t leave my feminine products lying about after I’m done with them. Because that would be DISGUSTING. I might lose my mind if, as a teen, she does the same thing with pads that she does with her pull-ups. I might even get nostalgic for the days when it was just a pull-up I found.
  5. Yeah, well, you smell like rat-patooties. I am ashamed to admit this, but I have been known to sink to my kids’ level when I am at the end of my rope. I would love to be the perfect parent who always takes the high road and is so awesomesauce that they never even get into a fight with their child because they and their child are so well behaved, fighting is not in their lexicon. Since our family is on the opposite spectrum, I end up saying things like “rat-patooties” and, “no… you are!” We’re all 5 in this house.
  6. You have lost TV in the morning, TV in the car, and when you get out of school. This is something that sticks out, not for the words themselves, but because I said them while trying unsuccessfully to get my daughter to bed. I start by offering her rewards to stay in bed, like watching Sheriff Callie in the morning or snuggling when she wakes up. Then, after about the third time, the punishments get doled out. I try not to take too much away at one time because I’ll run out of bargaining chips pretty quickly. There are nights when I do run out and have to make things up, like, “Your grandparents won’t pick you up from school now.” They weren’t planning on it, but dammit, I don’t know what else to say. It’s either that or, “Go the f to sleep!” in my best Samuel L. Jackson voice. I like to think I made the right choice in that situation.
  7. Who pooped in the hall and ate it? Oh, wait. That’s something I say to the dogs. Nevermind.

While I’m glad I haven’t had to resort to the violent, old-school chestnuts such as, “I’ll give you something to cry about” or, “If I have to come up there….” I still wonder on a daily basis, what the hell am I saying? Is this normal? Am I raising some seriously screwed up kids? I guess as long as I don’t have to ask the kids if they ate their own poop, things can’t be too bad, right?

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