Read Blacklisted from the PTA Online
Authors: Lela Davidson
Blacklisted from the PTA (7 page)
I
ONCE OPENED THE WRONG DRAWER AT A FRIEND
’
S
house. Instead of the spoons her mother had asked for, I found a broken ruler, chewed pencils, and a padlock splattered with paint.
What a relief. We had a drawer at home that held hair bands, restaurant matches, and inkless pens. I’d assumed this was our family’s particular shame. Learning that other people suffered the junk-sickness was comforting, but still, I wanted better for myself. When I moved away from home, I tried not to repeat the pattern, but somehow ended up maintaining my own junk drawers in apartments and houses across the country. All the while I dreamed of an organized space with cubbies for keys, picture hanging hardware, and miniature screwdrivers. I’m not quite there.
We have two junk drawers now: his and hers. His catches manly items like lighters, electrical tape, and the occasional nut and bolt. Mine is for the stuff of daily life. I open it no less than ten times a day and I organize it over and over in my continuous effort to get it to close properly.
First, I root out garbage because trash gives respectable junk drawers a bad name. I don’t need an old church program or last May’s third grade spelling list. I toss cardboard boxes and brochures for $45 bottles of acai berry juice. Of course, not all trash starts out as such, but is rendered useless over time. What good is $3 off a car wash in 2004? Was I planning to time travel? I find idea notes for stories scratched off on index cards:
Red Explorer-leaf pile playhouse-childhood dream with circus rat
. That’s useful.
Some things inspire guilt, like my daughter’s crumpled artwork. While my firstborn’s early masterpieces hold a place of honor in a plastic tub somewhere, the second child will surely need art therapy later. There is the Scalpicin I bought before I realized the itchy scalp really was lice and not just some other irritant that, God forbid, the neighbors might mistake for lice. I debate where to put the telephone number to Poison Control (in case I splash nail polish remover in my daughter’s eye again).
Then there are essentials. Sure, I can live without the nutritional information for McDonald’s and Starbucks, but not my bent and faded Weight Watchers Points Counter. That stays. Also, Post-its, Sharpies, tape, and paper clips. These are musthave supplies in a well-stocked kitchen.
I finally reach the bottom of the drawer, only to find that uncapped pens have created inkblots that inspire me to peer deep into my psyche. Not good. The ink needs covering up— quick. Back into the drawer go immunization records, pencils, candy, scissors, and erasers. Back in for binder clips, thumbtacks, and take-out menus.
Done. One little spot is relatively organized and I feel lighter. Though my drawer may not be perfect, it gets me through the day. And it shuts—for now.
: P
IANO
R
ECITAL
– 4
P
.
M
. At 4:30, I realized we weren’t there. I began a meltdown. The last time I’d experienced a guilt-fest that intense was Christmas Eve the year before when I’d been certain that I hadn’t gotten my kids even one gift they wanted and worse yet, my wrapping sucked. Now, like then, I puddled onto my bedroom floor, sniffling and sobbing like a toddler. I’d failed as a mother yet again. I cried for the missed recital during broad daylight in front of the kids.
“Are you okay?” my son was equally confused. “I’m the worst mom ever,” I blurted through the snot and tears. Not only would my children miss the chance to play the piano in front of all those adoring fans, but their names in the program would announce my failure.
Davidson. Davidson? Are you here? What’s that—neither Davidson is here? Oh dear. It seems the Davidsons have other plans today.
Murmurs would float through the crowd. We’d be banned from the music school. Good mothers, afraid of my contagious badness, would move closer to each other when they saw me at Walmart. I’d be the Leper mom. My Good Mommy card would be revoked. And whose fault was that?
Mothers get no training, no license, no education credit hours to maintain. I screw up—a lot. For example, I once called my son a moron for spilling a box of angel hair pasta on the tile. No good mother would do that, but those noodles are hard to pick up, damn it. I’ve mastered the mommy apology: “Sorry, Sweetie. Mommy’s very crabby today.”
If only there were classes to teach us the intricacies of calendar management, lunch box basics, and play date etiquette. I want a certificate to hang on my wall, one I can point to and say, “This is what they taught me. I’m qualified.” Maybe we can learn mothering by mail. Everything from pacifier maintenance to paying for college could be taught by correspondence courses and online chats.
Ambitious moms could go for an Associates Degree in Artsy Craftsy, or a Bachelors in Butt Wiping. Truly overachieving moms could go for their Masters in Mommy & Me or PhD in Potty Training. There would be continuous education in PTA management and extra credit for lice eradication. Face it, we need a curriculum. Women’s intuition can leave a lot to chance.
As for the missed recital, it turned out there was another one the next day. By then my sobs had subsided and I watched with pride as my babies plunked out
Old MacDonald
and
Mary Had a Little Lamb
on the ivories. For this whisper of musical talent I had tiptoed at the edge of sanity. I obviously had much to learn.
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.
S
ON
,
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.
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
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.
VE LIVED FOR YEARS IN VARIOUS PLACES WITHOUT GOOD SHOP
PING
, 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.
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.