Blacklisted from the PTA

by Davidson, Lela

  While there may never be a formal training program for motherhood, we could all benefit from a few seminars, at least. Organizational skills, anyone? Or at the very least a workshop in how to cull a teachable moment from your Mommy Meltdown.

  In the mean time, I’d advise you to buy a big calendar and a value pack of post-its. Consider these your Cliff’s Notes.

  The New Birthday Plan

  DEAR SON,

  I’m writing to tell you about an exciting change we’ll be making in regard to birthdays this year! Because this is a big birthday year for me (rhymes with shorty), and because you’re such a big boy now, and frankly because I’m a little worn out with the whole kids’ birthday scene, we’re going to do things a little differently this year. Instead of me spending my time planning, executing, and cleaning up after your birthday party, you’re going to do all that for my birthday.

  Sounds like fun, right? First you’re going to help me make a list of all my very best friends. Don’t worry, the guest list won’t get out of hand. You know how I always limit the number of guests at your parties to your age? Same deal. I’ll only be inviting forty friends. Because my friends are slightly geographically diverse, transporting them all to the party could be tricky. But you’ll figure it out. Just like Daddy and I always find a way to shuttle your friends around. I promise my pals will smell better. Most of them, anyway.

  Aren’t you just dying to know the theme for my party? You know how you’re always begging for pizza parties and laser tag parties and parties where you can eat pizza while riding go-carts and play laser tag in space? I want a cool party too. That’s why I’ll be going to a spa with my forty friends. (I have NO idea how much all this will cost, but you might want to start saving your allowance now.)

  When you think about it, this spa idea is a pretty good deal for you because it frees you from cooking a bunch of food we might very well a) eat without tasting, b) throw at each other, or c) shove down our throats so fast it makes us sick enough to vomit on the good carpet.

  After the party, of course I’ll expect you to hound me night and day until I write each and every last thank you note. You’ll also need to keep track of my gifts and write down exactly how to word my gratitude to each of my guests.

  Finally, when I get bored will all my presents—like a week later—I’m going to be really crabby and whiny. I may refuse to do ordinary tasks like make your dinner and wash your underwear. Don’t take this personally. After all, you’re the one spoiling me rotten! I’m really excited about this year’s birthday plans and so proud of you, my grownup little boy!

  Love, Mommy

  Strategic Swearing

  AS WE HEAD INTO SPRING WITH OUR CALENDARS CAREFULLY coordinated, piano lessons penned in next to sports practices and Pampered Chef parties, I occasionally want to cuss. It is sometimes wise, and when used in the proper context, swearing—especially to, or at, our children—can be highly motivating.

  I’m a Hockey Mom, which means I sit in the stands yelling, “GO-GO-GO!” and “GET THE PUCK!” as if I have half a clue what I’m talking about. I have also been known to scream, “KEEP YOUR STICK DOWN!” during particularly lively games— though I have no idea why that’s important. Being a Hockey Mom also means I’ve got to get my kids dressed in a ton of gear while they wiggle and complain and high-five their friends. I may use a little foul language when I lace the skates, but that is the hushed, hope-the-other-parents-don’t-hear kind of swearing. It’s not strategic.

  For all the effort I put into the sport, I want my son to care. Months of nagging and pleading to get dressed faster, skate harder, and go after the puck had proved unsuccessful. It was his third year playing and he just didn’t seem to enjoy it—until I asked if he wanted to play in the tournament that’s five hours and $500 away. Suddenly he’s interested. Anything to swim in a hotel pool.

  He seemed to respond to my husband’s pep talks, so one night at practice I decided to try a pep talk of my own. I kept the mothering to a minimum and tried to conjure motivating sports talk as I got him dressed.

  Nothing. The combination of his apathy and my determination not to point it out made me want to drop an F-Bomb. Thankfully, my frustration led to my epiphany. I didn’t know sports, but I knew how to punctuate a sentence. Just before my son put on his helmet, I grasped his shoulders, looked him in the eyes and said,

  “Listen to me.”

  He looked at me with that bored, “Yeah-what?” expression.

  “I want you to go out there—” I lowered my head and looked out over my glasses, “—and kick some ASS!”

  His eyes almost popped out. “I know,” I said. “And no, you’re not allowed to say that, but I am.”

  His surprise turned to determination. The kid moved like I’ve never seen. He strapped his helmet in an instant, hit the ice with a fury, smacked his stick against the puck and nearly scored a goal. Nothing sparks maternal pride like an ass-kicker. It made me wonder what other situations might benefit from a little strategic swearing.

  Clean up your f***ing room!

  Eat the g** d*** mushroom!

  Get your s**t off the yard!

  I started thinking this could work. Of course, it would be a fine line to walk. I wouldn’t want the kid so desensitized that my cursing would lose its power. It could take time to learn to pepper in the profanity just right—strategically, but it would be worth it.

  And to hell with good parenting. The kid’s going to learn to swear somewhere. May as well come from a pro.

  Got Stuff?

  I’VE LIVED FOR YEARS IN VARIOUS PLACES WITHOUT GOOD SHOPPING, which is fine. My life offers few occasions too good for an outfit from The Gap. However, the idea of a new mall made me giddy. Sure, there was the shopping, but malls are also about bringing people together. Or maybe just about gathering them all in one place so they can shop for stuff. Maybe I was slightly concerned that with a shiny new mall so close to home I could put a dent in the budget. Still, how could I resist the lure of open-air browsing, high-end stores, and piped-in sound? I had to make peace with the new mall—meet it head on and conquer my urge to splurge.

  I dressed up for its brand-new-ness, needing to look good to bolster myself against the temptation of all that glossy stuff calling my name. I took my kids to make sure I wouldn’t stay too long. The place had it all, clean as Disneyland, bright and new. From my small town vantage point, it was a lifeline to Someplace Else with spots for people to congregate, and Big City stores.

  I drooled for Haagen Daz, but refused to pay $3 a scoop. Reasoning that my kids wouldn’t know the difference, we headed to the Dairy Queen, housed in an extraordinary food court. Next to the bright plastic tables and chairs was the lounge, where shoppers’ uninterested entourages relaxed on clean, upholstered furniture watching plasma screens mounted over a stone hearth. I wondered how dingy and disgusting the comfy chairs would look after a year’s worth of old-man-head and teenage musk settled in.

  After the ice cream, we braved the stores. I reminded myself that I had all I needed at home, but still, there were those boots, the crystal goblets, the fluffy blankets. I prevailed. When we left the stores for the energy of the crowd, I realized that’s what I really missed about the city anyway. It wasn’t the stuff, but all those people.

  My kids begged to go to Build-A-Bear, but we negotiated instead for a children’s clothing store. I was at first delighted, then dismayed to find there were racks of clothes that both my daughter and I could fit into. We could be matching! Charming, yet I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the overfed ten-year-old who wears my size.

  My son tried on a black velour sport coat, which the mannequin wore over an un-tucked button-down shirt with a loosened tie. It was cute in the way that old pictures of a wasted twelve-year-old Drew Barrymore at Studio 54 are cute. He looked like a young Colin Farrell—minus the stubble. No purchase there.

  My feet ached, and after another twenty minutes of navigating the crowd, all those people started to wear
me out. I bought one thing: an amazing raspberry chipotle sauce we used to buy in Texas. For the life of me I couldn’t remember what we put it on, but we used to buy it by the barrel so I shelled out $10 for an eight-ounce bottle. I swung that little bag of veryspecial-sauce to the bounce in my step.

  I had succeeded! I’d resisted the lure of all things sparkly and smelling of newness. I proved that I could go to the mall and enjoy the sights, the people, the colored water fountain, and the smooth-but-still-cool-jazz floating through the cool evening air without going home burdened by a bunch of junk I didn’t need.

  Good for me.

  Now groceries, that’s another story. There’s bliss in the aisles of a Sam’s Club—and you don’t even have to dress up.

  Best Mom Ever: School Counselor

  O N THE WAY TO SCHOOL ONE MORNING MY DAUGHTER WAS CLOSE to tears. “What’s wrong?” I asked. Turns out her oh-sosensitive brother had made an appointment for them to visit the school counselor.

  “We fight all the time,” he explained. “It’s a problem and we need to solve it.”

  “But I didn’t DO anything,” my daughter whined.

  “Don’t worry, Sweetie,” I said. “You’re not in trouble.”

  “But I didn’t do ANYTHING!” Drops pooled in her eyes.

  It occurred to me that if my son insisted on psychological intervention, I could give it to him. I’ve watched Dr. Phil. How hard could it be? Besides, I wanted the juicy details that drove him to seek professional help.

  At breakfast the next day I played counselor.

  “So what would you like to talk about?” I asked.

  My son answered while my daughter averted her eyes.

  “Well, we fight,” he said. “Real bad.”

  My daughter folded her arms and clenched her jaw.

  “Mm-hmm. And how does that make you feel?” I asked.

  “Bad,” said the boy.

  “Bad,” said the girl.

  “Okay. So, you fight and that makes you both feel bad. Is that right?”

  They both nodded.

  “What do you fight about?” They were both quiet for a minute, then looked at each other.

  My daughter spoke up. “Sometimes we play games and he always makes up the powers and he gives himself all the good powers.”

  I shook my head. It always comes down to power.

  “Is this true?” I turned to my son. “Do you repeatedly endow yourself with the superior super powers?”

  “Yes,” he said, hanging his head.

  “How does that make you feel?” I asked my daughter.

  “It sort of makes me feel not listened to.”

  “Okay.” Trying to keep a straight face, I turned to my son. “Did you know you taking all the good powers made your sister feel not listened to?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how does that make you feel?”

  “Bad.”

  By this time I was starting to feel my own super powers. I’m more of a figure-it-out-yourself kind of Mom, but this babble seemed to be working.

  “So what do you think you guys could do so that you don’t fight so much?”

  “Maybe we could make up the games together?” said the girl.

  “That might work,” said the boy.

  “How would that make you feel if you two didn’t fight anymore?”

  “That would feel good,” they said together with great exhalations of relief.

  Not too shabby Dr. Davidson. I smiled, triumphant. “Now you don’t need to go see the counselor.”

  The Boy’s eyes popped open wide, then narrowed.

  “Yes we do.” His brows knotted.

  “Why? We already solved the problem.”

  “Because, Mom, you’re not the real counselor.”

  At least I got my daughter off the hook. When he finally visited the counselor at school, he went alone.

  “So what did she say?” I was dying to know.

  “She thought you had some pretty good ideas.”

  Ha! Once again, I missed my calling. “So I’m not a total loser?”

  “No, Mom,” he said. “You’re the Best Mom Ever.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.” And that’s how I learned that sarcasm is genetic.

  26 Ways to Torture Children

  THIS IS A STORY OF REVENGE. BEFORE SCHOOL LET OUT IN THE spring, my son’s class was assigned to write an ABC book. They could choose any topic they wanted as long as they came up with 26 things. My dear son decided to write 26 Ways to Annoy Your Mom. I had to get him back. There are many, many more, but here are my favorite 26 Ways to Torture Children.

  A – Always serve spinach, occasionally with a side of mushrooms.

  B – Beat them with a stick. Not hard, just enough to get their attention.

  C – Cuddle them in public. Singing a favorite lullaby also works well.

  D – Drone on about how totally rad the 80s were. Like, they, like, totally were.

  E – Eat the last cupcake. Also, lick the frosting off their cupcakes. They hate that.

  F – Fail to wash their soccer socks three times a week.

  G – Gush over their dimples when their friends come by.

  H – Hug your spouse and call him or her Babe.

  I – Invite the boy or girl who they like over, and cue up Barry White.

  J – Just say no to Poptarts.

  K – Kiss hello at soccer practice.

  L – Limit Nintendo DS use to times when it is convenient for you.

  M – Move the chips to the top shelf.

  N – Never give extra chocolate sauce.

  O – Order broccoli as a replacement for fries. P – Punish them with chores. Start with poop-scooping.

  Q – Quit buying bread that that is softer than your pillow.

  R – Remind them to pick up their rooms. Again.

  S – Sing along to the radio during carpool.

  T – Talk about puberty in front of the opposite sex.

  U – Underestimate how long it’ll take if they come grocery shopping with you.

  V – Voice your concern for their safety. Over, and over, and over, and over…

  W – Withhold allowance.

  X – Xerox their baby pictures and decoupage them on their lunch boxes.

  Y – Yodel.

  Z – Zing them with retaliatory comments in a public forum.

  Fear the Bunny

  EVERY YEAR MY KIDS CHOOSE HALLOWEEN COSTUMES. AND EVERY year since they were about four they have insisted that those costumes be different than the ones they wore the year before. As if anyone remembers. But okay.

  Off we go to Walmart to find something good. Wait a minute—what am I saying? We don’t do that at all. Turns out I’m WAY too cheap to spend $20 each and every year for some halfsewn wad of polyester. No, it’s a rare day that we buy off-the-shelf goblin attire. Usually I send my children into the closet with a pair of blunt scissors and a Sharpie.

  “Be creative,” I say. And they are. One year my son made a convincing Luke Skywalker outfit from nothing but a scrap of burlap and the core from an old roll of wrapping paper. My daughter looked just like Laura Ingalls Wilder in a dress made from pillowcases and strategically placed potholders. They have paraded the neighborhood as fairies, witches, ghosts, and pirates. All without resorting to the Halloween aisle. But last year my girl settled on her dream costume long before we ventured into the closet.

  “I want to be a bunny rabbit,” she told me. Great, I thought. I started mentally planning: white t-shirt, blush pink nose, floppy rag ears, done. I was all for it until she added, “We can use ketchup for the blood.”

  I hadn’t factored in the blood. It soon became clear that my daughter didn’t want to be an ordinary bunny, but an evil bunny rabbit—the one from Monty Python. She wanted to be the bunny with the vicious teeth. If you haven’t seen the Holy Grail, you’ll find this all a bit demented. You see, there’s a bunny, lots of blood, and an injured knight of the round table. (All ve
ry family friendly I assure you.)

  Although I’d rather she dress up as something a little less menacing, my daughter was intent on being evil. Who knew my cute second grader was a Halloween purist? I can’t blame her. Halloween is supposed to be scary. It’s fun to play evil. Who would you rather pretend to be—Cruella DeVille or the lame chick trying to save the puppies? Playing evil is fun because it’s make-believe. And we all know that real evil doesn’t wear vampire teeth.

  In the end, I was able to talk my angel of a girl into being a green-faced witch. She got to be scary, but traditional too, and in my opinion, sweet and nostalgic.

  This year she told me she wants to be a hot dog. So apparently she’s simply intent on splashing herself with ketchup. And she knows how to work the system.

  Seven Surefire Ways to Get Blacklisted from the PTA

  YOU HATE THE PTA. ADMIT IT. YOU’D RATHER CLEAN OUT THE drain than volunteer for field day or bake muffins for all those ungrateful teachers. But someone’s got to do it, right? Much as you cannot stand the thought of one more silent auction, you don’t want to be that mom—the slacker who doesn’t care enough about the social and educational future of her children to get her lazy ass down to the cafeteria for the float committee meeting.

  Instead of actually having to say no, wouldn’t it be easier to get kicked right out of the PTA? Now you can. I can help. Here are seven surefire techniques for getting banned from the PTA forever:

  #1 – Pass out peanuts. Peanuts in public schools are like anthrax in Washington, D.C. Distribute peanut M&Ms to the kids in your charge at the petting zoo and you’ll never be asked to organize another field trip.