So Now I'm Going To Pick on Parent Volunteers

So yesterday I went to my first "parent coffee" at the elementary school. It was so we could sign up to volunteer.

Now, I realize that my main experience with elementary school has been as a teacher in an urban district where kids sometimes confused thunder with gunfire, but OH MY GODDESS. I mean, I knew that in the suburbs parents actually sent in all the treats for the parties and did the setting up and stuff. I was prepared for that. And hell, even I had parents volunteer on field trips. So that's what I was expecting to do. Help with parties and field trips.

I am so freaking naive.

I also had the chance to sign up to stock the teacher's prize box, come and do crafts (where I bought the supplies) with the kids for each holiday, take photos of class events (where I would make enough copies of each photo for each kid in the photo), put together class memory books from the aforementioned photos, organize the teacher's take home story bags and several other things I can't remember.

This sign-up was separate from the PTO sign-up, where I could sign up to present art to the kids (my mom used to do that), read to the kids, organize the indoor recess games for the teachers, help with various school events, provide meals or rides for families going through illness and I can't remember what else.

I'm pretty sure that this is what happens when CEOs quit their jobs to stay at home with children.

What kills me is that there's a district not too far from here where kids rarely even get class parties. Where a lot of them don't even have photos of their families, let alone a precise record of kindergarten. Where the teachers have to organize everything themselves. Where there aren't even any field trips.

And I wonder why - with all this prodigious energy and skill - not one thing is being done for kids outside of our privileged zip code.

This is the real problem with public education in this country - shitty pay, bad preparation, immovable teachers' unions and ineffective administrators aside. No one cares about any kids but their own. And I'm not saying we all need to put in the hours at some less privileged school instead of getting to see our own kids enjoy their own Halloween party. But surely the fact that the class moms pull our names out of a hat for field trip chaperoning because so many of us want to go says that maybe some of us have some free time to spare?

Back when I was teaching, one of my colleague's classes was adopted by a high school class from the suburbs (the two teachers were friends). The high school kids basically stepped into the parent volunteer roles that aren't very easily filled by people who are single, working 2 jobs or otherwise hindered. And yeah, I was kinda jealous.

There's no reason that this couldn't be done a grander scale. If people actually cared. A friend of mine recently asked a question on Facebook;

How do you get people to care about the education of other people's children as much as they care about their own children's education???

I'd settle for half as much as their own children's education, at least for the people around here. But I sure as hell don't know.

Faux Pas Friday: The Tampon

I don't know whether to blame my very, very, very late '30's or my children, but something around here has turned what used to be pretty normal periods into weeks from HELL. Add in the fact that said weeks are unpredictable (in fact, this week started LATE and I was imagining myself as one of the few women whose bodies overcome tubal ligation. As in, pregnant again. As in, mother of 4. As in, no semblance of sanity left.) and you have a recipe for various disasters.

Like having to ask your 5 year old to go up and get you a tampon.

Because I have kept my daughter ignorant of such things, I had to describe what they looked like.

(Generally, we're pretty open around here - correct names for body parts, explaining that touching yourself is fine in private, daddies plant seeds in mommies to make babies - but periods are a lot of detail. My own mother was very, very open about hers and it freaked me out so much that I dreaded it for years. I even ignored my first one for a day or two. So I see no reason to depress Ironflower ahead of time with details of blood, bloating and bitching.)

So my description was clear enough, apparently, because she found me one easily. She brought it to the downstairs bathroom, where I had discovered my desperate need a few minutes earlier. But naturally she wanted to hang out, not hand over the tampon and get away.

"What's it for, anyway?" she asked. This is the problem with encouraging your children to ask questions and to always providing them with an over-abundance of information.

Naturally, ChunkMonkey came toddling in at that moment. And because I was busy trying to think of an explanation that would not freak her out while, um - let's say "covering my shame", shall we? - I was not prepared. And because I was not prepared, ChunkyMonkey proceeded to grab the tampon and throw it into the sink.

"Nice job, ChunkyMonkey, " I said sarcastically. Ironflower asked if the tampon was supposed to go in the sink. Ironflower still misses a lot of my sarcasm. For which I am grateful.

"Does it help with clogs?" she asked hopefully. We have a sink clogging issue at our house, possibly because everyone except ChunkyMonkey had SO MUCH FREAKING HAIR. Anyway, I pondered the clog question with a slight smirk.

In the end, I said that mommies' bodies had to get rid of stuff each month and that tampons helped. I waited for follow up questions (nervously), but there were none. "Will you make lunch when you're done?" she asked cheerfully.

I nodded and asked her to shut the door. The whole situation could have been avoided, of course, if I just kept a stash in the downstairs bathroom.

How do you handle those kinds of situations? Uh, you do have those kinds of situations, right? I'm not the only person whose had her 5 year old grab a tampon for her, am I?

Faux Pas Friday: Story Time

When I quit working full time, one of the first things I did was rush my kids to story time. Ironflower was 18 months old, Lovebug 3 months. Lovebug mostly hung out in his stroller. I drove to the main branch of the KC library because they had all sorts of neat kids' stuff and a craft room and what have you. I was sure that Ironflower would love it because she loved (and still loves) listening to stories.

It was hell.

Ironflower did nothing but mortify me. She walked around instead of sitting in my lap. She talked during the stories. Sometimes she got up and did a little dance in front of whoever was reading, waving at the audience of parents and nannies.

The only reason I kept putting myself through the humiliation (because, even though this was a story time for young children, I got very few sympathetic looks from the staff when Ironflower acted up. Mostly they were annoyed) was because it was also my chance to check out grown up books. It takes a lot more than humiliation to keep me from getting new reading material.

At around 2 1/2 Ironflower suddenly became the pillar of story time. But that was after we moved here, so I never got to show off her excellent  behavior to the people who spent 10 months glaring at me. When Lovebug got mobile, he was always an angel at storytime. I figured it was because he'd been going practically since birth.

Anyway, today ChunkyMonkey and I went to storytime at our local, small library. ChunkyMonkey has also been going to storytime since birth. He does not get up in front of our librarian when she is reading or singing songs. But he doesn't sit in my lap either.

He explores the room, stopping by to hug me frequently. He is usually quiet, but I don't think he's ever sat still for a story or a song. And I feel like apologizing to Ironflower, because ChunkyMonkey and I have a much better time at storytime than she and I ever did. I'm not embarrassed by his behavior or that he doesn't act like all the sweet, docile children (at least, not in this particular instance). Consequently he does his thing and scribbles a bit on the craft and it's all good.

Except when he inspires another child to rebel. Today 2 little girls - normally lap-sitters - noticed what a fine time ChunkyMonkey was having while walking around one of the craft tables. So they too decided to explore. And their mothers tried to corral them. Which made them run faster. And shriek. And pull on the table cloths.

It crossed my mind to make ChunkyMonkey sit down with me. That probably would have helped the other moms settle their girls down. But it also would have meant incurring the wrath of the pissed off ChunkyMonkey. This kind of wrath includes kicking, screaming, biting and throwing things.  I looked at him as he toddled toward me. He wasn't shrieking or pulling the tablecloth or disrupting anything. He hugged me and gave me an angelic, then continued toddling around the table.

I totally let him. I believe the librarian cut short her book reading as the 2 girls ran around the craft tables. But that wasn't my fault, was it?

Faux Pas Friday: Pearl Jam

Amazingly enough, I can't remember a faux pas from this week. Which isn't to say that I didn't have any,  it's just that none of them were terrible enough to be ingrained on my psyche. Luckily, I have plenty of embarrassing memories from before I started blogging. I can't entirely blame my children for my lack of social graces. . . .

Year: 1995   Location: The OK Hotel, a music venue/bar in Seattle   Scene: Grunge

I am thrilled to pieces to be at The OK Hotel, where they actually filmed some of the movie Singles. I still love that movie. Anyway, my ex and I are there to see his friend's band perform. My ex hated going to see bands, which explains why even though I lived in the northwest in the '90's I missed most of the live music scene. Not that I'm bitter. But on this particular night he consented to join our generation, so there I was in the OK Hotel.

I drank a lot of beer. I wore black. I nodded knowingly when people talked about bands I'd never heard and that Pearl Jam was starting its own music label. I did get slightly excited when someone said members of Pearl Jam were going to show up, but I didn't see anyone who looked like Eddie Vedder.

After the show we sat at a table with the band and lots of other musicians. The guy sitting next to me - seemingly bored with some debate about Mother Love Bone - asked me what I did. I said I was in grad school but felt somehow lame about explaining that it was for elementary education. At that moment I wanted to be some sort of starving artist. So I brightly changed the subject and asked him what he did.

He laughed. I stared. He said he played guitar for Pearl Jam. Then he got up and went to the bar while the guy across from me - my husband's high school friend - begged me to tell him that I had not just asked Stone Gossard what he did for a living.

My ex decided to take me home, over my loud protest, "But how I am supposed to remember what he looks like? You always hog Spin Magazine." Stone waved at me as we left.

Faux Pas Friday

When I first started blogging, I participated in something that happened on Fridays. But I can't remember what and I'm really too lazy to go back and check. Anyway, I don't come across as many blog carnivals as I used to, but I find that specific topics (ie True Confession Tuesday) help me blog more consistently. I'm the kind of person who needs boundaries and goals. I would have a much cleaner house, for example, if someone were grading me on it.

Anyway, recently I realized that, along with a svelte figure and sleep, motherhood has robbed me of my social skills. I have no emotional intelligence - in fact, I can barely remember to ask people how they are. It's not that I don't care, it's just that I'm trying to keep from ripping my hair out. That takes up most of what's left of my brainpower. Consequently, I make a lot of  les faux pas. And you know the way I handle embarrassment is by blogging about it.

Faux 1

A hot morning. Preschool is over for the year (more on that later). Hot Guy has the car. I need to go to the bank and the library and entertain my kids. So I have the genius idea that we'll walk on all of these errands, with a side trip to the Dunkin Donuts for a munchkin bribe. The bank is not that far, but between pushing a 25 pound kid, 40 pounds of books and the heat, I am a sweaty mess by the time we get there. And of course it's annoying and the baby starts screaming to get out of the stroller halfway through. Fortunately, the air-conditioned mecca of sugar is next door. I assume it will be fairly empty at this time of the morning, but naturally it is crowded so by the time I get the sugar and my diet Pepsi I am already flustered. I can barely get through with the stroller and the big table in the back is blocked by 2 standing women. They are talking to a woman at another table, and don't seem to notice us. So I squeeze the kids in next to the seated woman. When she turns around, I apologize and say pointedly, "There was no other room." She smiles and says hi to my kids, tells the daughter on her lap to do the same. I stand and chug my diet Pepsi and stifle ChunkMonkey's "Out!OUt!" yells with glazed munchkins. The woman asks me if we've walked there and I nod and wonder why she keeps talking to me. She seems surprised that I'm not really talking back. But I'm hot and all I want is for her to leave so I can sit.

It's not until after she's left that I realize she lives down the street from us. Our children have played together in the cul-de-sac. I used to know her name.

Oops.