by Jen Mann
“Are you trying to be funny?” Veronica asked me.
“Sort of. Look, I agree that a rabbit is a stupid idea for an auction basket. However, the dumb thing was free, and the committee doesn’t turn away free stuff—ever. If they can raffle it off for a dollar, they’ll do that. I know that if someone really wanted a rabbit, it would be ideal if they thought through all of the pros and cons of pet ownership and then went to the store and bought one. But while that rabbit will probably be won by someone who has no idea what to do with it, I’m sure they’ll figure it out.”
“I just hope it turns out better than the Molloys and the guinea pig.”
“I need to find my kids and ask them if they put their tickets in the bunny bucket,” said Julia.
“Why did you let your kids put the tickets in that bucket, Julia?” I asked. “My kids wanted the rabbit, too, but I told them to put their tickets in any other bucket but the rabbit’s.”
“I didn’t let them. They chose to,” said Julia. “They are independent people who are capable of having thoughts and desires. Does anyone control you?”
“Yes. Society. We have rules and laws we have to follow.”
“I mean, does anyone in your house control you?”
“No, but I’m the adult in my house. So I get to be in charge.”
“Being an adult doesn’t give you the right to control children. They’re just smaller people, that’s all,” said Julia.
“Smaller people who live in my house and eat my food and expect me to buy them raffle tickets,” I reminded her. “Thus I get to choose where the raffle tickets go, and I said no bunny.”
“Do your children fear you?” asked Julia.
“I sure hope so,” I replied. “Or else I’m doing something wrong.”
“That’s not funny, Jen.”
For once I wasn’t trying to be funny.
I sighed and put down my phone. All day long I’d listened to everyone else throw their mom-bombs at one another. It was my turn to join the war now and impart my words of wisdom that no one cared to hear. “See, what you don’t understand, Julia, is that I have no problem with my kids fearing me a little bit. I’m not their friend. I’m their mother. I’m always late turning in permission slips and money for field trips, but their homework is never late. I might be killing them slowly with sugar and nitrates, but when we’re in the car, they buckle up. I let my kids make decisions for themselves, but some things are not up for discussion. When it’s cold, they wear a coat. Every morning and every night, they brush their teeth. And finally, they cannot have a rabbit, because I don’t want to be the one stuck taking care of it. So I told them to put their tickets elsewhere, which I am confident that they did. I know I’m not alone on that last one. I think that most parents who purchased the raffle tickets are telling their children what they may and may not bid on. I’m sorry that your children have no rules. Maybe you should adopt some systems.”
If I had long enough hair to flip, I would have done it as I turned and left the library. As soon as I hit the hall I started searching frantically for my kids. “Gomer! Adolpha!” I yelled when I spotted them. “Where did you put your raffle tickets?” The winners were going to be announced soon, and even though I’d told my kids not to put their tickets in the bunny bucket, that didn’t mean they’d actually listened to me. I wasn’t sure what would be worse, the shame of facing Julia after winning the damn thing or having to tell Veronica it died quicker than the Molloys’ guinea pig.
Being a room mom is one of the worst jobs at elementary school, and that’s coming from the lady who is currently serving as the PTO president—a job that mostly involves listening to people yell at you about things you have no control over. If you’ve ever been a room mom, then you know it’s a job that is taken very seriously. It’s not a job for the weak. Tough decisions must be made when you’re the room mom, decisions like selecting the perfect gift for the teacher’s birthday or choosing the theme for the classroom basket that will be auctioned off to the highest bidder at the school carnival.
At least it’s easier to hear someone bitch, “I hate the colors of the hallways in the school. The PTO should paint them,” when you’re the PTO president and you have perks like your own parking spot and … hmm, I guess that’s about it as far as perks go. Still, what do the room moms get? Nothing. Except a tiny bit of power that they can wield over their fiefdom.
Not everyone is cut out to cross a room mom, and I learned that lesson early on.
It was back-to-school night, and I was visiting Adolpha’s kindergarten classroom for the first time. Her teacher had just finished telling us about all of the exciting plans she had for the year. “Well, it’s been lovely meeting all of you tonight,” she said. “I hope those of you who are interested in volunteering in the classroom signed up on the sheet I put out earlier.”
I decided to check it out and see if she needed paper plates for anything.
The sheet was almost completely blank except for the line for room mom. Four women had written down their names. Yeah. Four. One, two, three, four. There are only three parties to plan, there are only two occasions to buy teacher gifts, there is only one carnival basket to design, yet four women wanted the job—so bad that the last two had scrawled their names in the margins of the paper. The other lines on the sign-up sheet were blank. No one was doing a craft or a game or a healthy (or unhealthy) snack for any of the parties. We just had a lot of ladies in charge of no one. I imagined that so many room moms could only be trouble. In my experience, when you get four women together all trying to make an event special for their child and his or her teacher, it can get … testy. Or maybe it’s only testy if I’m in the group. I’ve been told I can be a bit pushy.
All of those names crammed onto one line sort of irked me. What were they trying to prove? I loved my kid, too, damn it. I just didn’t want to prove it by elbowing my way in as room mom. I could do something, too, to make her parties special. But when I picked up the pencil I was suddenly accosted. “Hi, Jen. What are you thinking about signing up for?” asked Lucy, one of the four room moms.
“I was going to do paper plates, but I didn’t see a line for that. Do you guys not need plates for anything this year?”
“I’m not sure. Plates are something we can always get at the last minute,” Lucy said.
“Right. If you say so. I think plates are pretty important,” I said. “But since you don’t have plates as an option, I guess I’ll do the Halloween party craft.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Well, I just didn’t know you were crafty.”
“I’m fairly crafty. You should see my basement. Crafting is my dirty little secret.” I winked. She stared at me as if I had said my dirty little secret was running a dog-fighting ring.
I changed gears quickly. “Look, it’s a bunch of little kids. How crafty do you need to be? We’ll probably just make those lollipop ghost things.”
“Ooh, yeah, we can’t do those,” she said with fake sadness.
Now she was joined by Cadence, one of her fellow room moms. “Yeah, we’re doing a sugar-free party this year,” Cadence said.
“A sugar-free Halloween party?” Blasphemous!
“Yes.”
“You do know Halloween is all about sugar? The whole idea of Halloween is to go and collect candy from strangers.”
“Jen, we have a childhood obesity problem in our country, and we don’t want to add to that. We know that the kids are going to get so much junk, and we don’t want to be a part of it.”
“What about treats? Will there be cupcakes or anything?” I asked, because now I wanted to sign up to bring those huge Costco cupcakes.
“Oh no,” Lucy said. “We’re only doing healthy treats. Estelle’s mom is going to make the most adorable veggie skeleton you’ve ever seen. The kids are just going to freak out when they see it.”
“ ‘Freak’ is probably the
right word,” I replied. “I think most kids would freak out at a veggie-only Halloween party.”
“Most parents appreciate this ban on sugar. They’re thrilled we’re doing this.”
“So all four of you decided that just now?” I asked.
“No. I decided,” Lucy said. “I signed up as room mom first, so I’m the head room mom. I’m the one who has to make those tough calls.” Cadence looked a little shocked at Lucy’s obvious power grab, but she reined it in. Got to put on a united front, I guess.
“Oh. Gotcha. Well, if I can’t do lollipop ghosts, I’ll figure out something else.”
“Perfect!” Lucy said. “Do me a favor, though. Once you’ve got it planned, just shoot me an email and let me know so I can approve it.”
“You want to approve my craft?”
“Well, obviously, I’m going to need to. Especially since your first idea wasn’t on the approved list.”
“I’ll do toilet paper mummies. I just saw those on Pinterest last week. They look easy enough.”
“Hmm … will they be scary?” asked Cadence.
“I doubt it. They have googly eyes and smiley faces.” No sugar and nothing scary? These women were ruining my favorite holiday.
“I think that will work,” said Lucy. “Just send me a link to the pin so I can check it out.”
“I can show it to you on my phone right now,” I replied, reaching for my phone.
“Oh, now’s not a good time for me. I’m here tonight to get to know Emalyn’s teacher, not to be ‘room mom,’ ” she said, using air quotes. “I have to set work-life boundaries. In fact, go ahead and send the link to Elaine. I think I’ll have all replies to my room mom correspondence go to Elaine.”
Elaine was on the other side of the room, but her ears perked up when she heard her name. “Huh? You need me to do something, Lucy?” she asked.
“Yes. When I send out emails to the parents, I’m going to have all questions and replies go to you. Then you can sort through them and organize them for me. It will keep my inbox clutter down and free me up to focus on the most important job I have.”
“Carnival basket?” I asked. (Hey, I was born a PTO president. My motto is “Always be fund-raising.”)
“No,” Lucy said disdainfully. “Teacher Christmas gift.”
“So what are you thinking?” Elaine asked Lucy.
“I have an idea,” offered Cadence.
“Hey, you guys,” said the fourth room mom, Virginia. “I’ve got that questionnaire from Mrs. Johnson she’s filled out with her likes and dislikes. She likes Chipotle and Target and baseball. So I was thinking maybe we could get her some gift cards and find some cool baseball memorabilia online or tickets to a game or something like that.”
“No,” Lucy said, dismissing her. “I’ve been thinking about this all summer. What does every woman love?”
“Wine,” I said.
“Pampering, Jen,” Lucy scolded me. “A spa day.”
“Ooh, that does sound nice,” I said. “I love massages and pedicures.”
“Yes, except what if she could be pampered in her own classroom by her own students?”
Huh? I didn’t get it.
“Who wants to take a day and go to a spa when we can bring the spa to her? I want to set up Mrs. Johnson’s Spa in her classroom during lunch one day. We’ll have the kids give her scalp massages and rub her feet with essential oils. We’ll bring in lunch for her and give her a gift card to Barnes and Noble. Teachers never have enough books.”
“Actually, they do. My cousin is a teacher and she told me that teachers get books really cheap from Scholastic,” I said. “Besides, Barnes and Noble isn’t on the questionnaire. Mrs. Johnson likes Target.”
“Jen, why are you even a part of this conversation? You’re not a room mom,” Lucy said.
“Well, you guys started talking in front of me, and when you’re ready to buy the gift, I’m going to be one of the people you ask to give money, so I thought I’d offer you my opinion.”
“Well, this is really a conversation for room moms,” Cadence said. Virginia and Elaine nodded vigorously.
I wanted to say to Virginia, What are you looking at? You’re the lowest one on this totem pole, and you’ll be lucky if Lucy lets you do the game at the Winter Party. Better start brushing up on Snowman, Snowman, Reindeer!
Now I was starting to get pissed. First I needed to get my fucking craft approved, then I was ordered to direct all of my correspondence to Lucy’s lackey, and now these bitches expected my kid to run her hands over Mrs. Johnson’s dry scalp? (No offense, Mrs. Johnson—my scalp is very dry, too.) I couldn’t take it anymore. I said, “You know what? Your ideas are revolting, Lucy. I don’t know who it’s worse for—the kids who have to eat their lunch after massaging their teacher’s cracked heels or the teacher who has to endure twenty sets of dirty little mitts pawing her feet while she tries to choke down her lunch, which probably isn’t even Chipotle.”
“Well, it’s not your decision to make,” Lucy sneered. “You’re not a room mom. Why don’t you go and start collecting toilet paper rolls for your craft? But be sure to send the link to Elaine for approval first.”
“Got it,” I replied.
I walked down the hall and signed up to run for PTO president. I won an uncontested race. Nobody wants to be PTO president. They’d rather fight over the room mom spots. It makes no sense. What these bitches didn’t get is this: why waste your time ruling a fiefdom when you can have a kingdom—and a parking space?
I love garage-sale-ing. (Yes, I just used it as a verb. If you are a fellow garage sale aficionado, then you understand why and you also use it as a verb.) There is nothing that makes me happier than driving around town every fall and spring and seeing the neighborhood banners advertising upcoming garage sales. It’s amazing what people get rid of. You never know what you’re going to find in someone’s dusty garage. I’ve heard folklore about long-lost engagement rings hidden in the lining of a handbag or priceless copies of the Declaration of Independence pasted to the backs of old paintings, but I’ve only found excellent deals on kids’ soccer cleats. Still totally exciting, though. New cleats are expensive!
Besides shopping at garage sales, I love hosting garage sales. Every year my mom and I dig through our houses and find a bunch of crap (I mean really terrific stuff) to sell so we can earn some money so we can go back out and buy some more crap (I mean really terrific stuff) that we’ll use for a bit and then turn around and garage-sale in a couple of years. It’s the circle of life suburban style.
My mom and I take our garage-sale-ing very seriously. We set up tables and clothing racks and organize our loot like our own little store. We line the driveway with the “good” stuff meant to entice people and draw them in so they will stay awhile. We work hard to get good, quality buyers into our garage of goodies.
There are lots and lots of nice, normal people who come to our garage sale. They look around and they compliment us on our neatness (little do they know it’s the only time of year I sweep out my garage), the quality of our merchandise (a lot of my mom’s clothes still have the tags on them, and I sell so many designer kids’ clothes that I’ve been known to tell people I have four children instead of two), and the overall ambiance of our garage sale (we pipe in soft music on the laptop and sell cold beverages; if you squint your eyes and ignore the lawn mower and the overflowing recycling bin, you’d almost think you’re at the mall). The nice, normal people always pay the asking price and never say stupid things like “I’ll give you twenty-five bucks to take that deep freezer off your hands,” pointing to my garage freezer (plugged in and full of my family’s frozen food) that is clearly marked with a sign stating that it’s not for sale.
Fortunately, the nice, normal people are the ones who visit often, but sometimes my mom and I host a garage sale that attracts the jackholes of the world.
Our last garage sale started off perfectly fine, and then the mother with the tiny tornado swooped in. Loo
k, I’m not stupid. I know my number one garage sale customer is my fellow mom. Kid gear, toys, and clothes are expensive, and my garage sales are a great place to pick up some terrific deals, so I’m always happy to see a mom and her kid walk up my driveway. However. This bitch was so preoccupied with pawing through my mom’s pile of three-dollar jeans, she barely noticed that her demon spawn was running amok. Whenever I am irritated by a kid’s behavior I always try to do the passive-aggressive thing to get the mom’s attention. I’m not proud of it, but people are crazy when it comes to their kids. You can’t just open with “Lady, restrain your brat, would ya?” You’ve got to finesse it. So I said, “I know I’m only asking a couple of bucks for that set of Legos your son is strewing across my driveway, but now that he’s lost half of the pieces, I’m worried I won’t even get a quarter for it.”
“What?” She looked up from the pile of my mother’s size 10 jeans that were never going to fit her size 14 ass (trust me, lady, I’ve already tried).
“Your son. He’s dumping all of my Legos on the driveway.”
“Aren’t they for sale?”
“Yes, they are. Would you like to buy them?”
“No. We have tons of Legos.”
“Well then …” I trailed off at this point, expecting her to do the right thing and rein her kid in, pick up the Legos, and preferably leave, because at that point she was only looking at my mom’s stuff and I wasn’t going to make any money off her.
“Okay,” she sighed, and put down the pair of jeans she was eyeing so she could yell to her kid. “Casper! Put away the Legos.”
Casper whined, “I’m just playing with them!”
“I know, baby, but the lady doesn’t want you to touch her stuff. Apparently you can look but you can’t touch at this sale.”
Oh no she didn’t! Did she just try to out-passive-aggressive me?
“I never said you can’t touch the Legos. I would just prefer it if you didn’t rip into the sealed box and lose half of them in my yard,” I told Casper. “I’d like to sell them, and no one will want them if most of the pieces are missing.”
