Tuesday, November 21, 2006


I got to be Room Mom (it's called Party Mom these days. whutever.) for Jr. Mint's preschool class quite by default this year. At orientation at the beginning of the year, Jr. Mint and I were the last ones to leave and the line was still blank. Teacher looked at me with pleading eyes, what could I do. There it is.

So today was the Thanksgiving feast. Now here's the background story. All year long (keep in mind this is preschool, not brain surgery, 'kay? and there's not much to this Room -oops!- Party Mom thang at the Preschool level). An untrained person can do it which is why I'm holding my own. Mostly about communication and organization, and I'm not good at muchanuthin but I can do those two things with my hands tied and blindfolded, baby. Anyhoodiepo. Every time I send out a broadcast email to the parents Joyce shoots me one right back saying "I think it might be better if . . . .", and then she always ends it with, "Just a thought!" Ugh. Sometimes she's right. Lotsa times. I appreciate the input. She's a smart gal. Thing is she likes to carbon copy all the other parents with the tweaky suggestions. Arrgggghhh. Makes everyone uncomfortable. But whaddya do.

A pattern began to develop. No one could make her happy and nothing was ever done just right. So school started in September and here we are at the end of November. Joyce is one of the two Moms that was responsible for today's Thanksgiving Feast and since I'm the Party Mom I was there too to make sure everything went smoothly, to be there in case they needed any help. And as you can imagine, Joyce is a perfectionist so today's party was incredibly organized, the centers were beautifully prepared and everything went like clockwork. BUT. During the pilgrim hat craft center, (where the hat was made with a fudge stripe cookie and a marshmallow dipped in melted chocolate.....looked just like a pilgrim hat, too) my Jr. Mint dropped his chocolate covered marshmallow into his lap before it made it to his fudge stripe cookie. Well he didn't care too much, but it got all over Joyce. She was shaken. She was upset. She wanted to take his pants off and go wash them out in the sink. (They keep an extra set of clothes there.) She apologized to me profusely.

"Joyce," I said. "Presoak is our friend. It's JUST chocolate!" Joyce wasn't convinced.

"Wait'll your son gets this age," I said. He's nine months old now. She just got back with him from Moscow. My gosh he's beautiful. Oh. That's another story. Anyhow. "Wait'll your son gets this age. His pants'll look like this too. Don't worry about it!"

Still not convinced.

"Listen," I said. "As soon as we get home, Jr. Mint will go outside with a toy in each hand and either sit in the driveway or sit in the pile of leaves in the front yard. When he comes back in, I won't be able to SEE that spot of chocolate because the spots of yard dirt will be camouflaging it. So you and my son go finish his pilgrim hat. Okay?"

I think I actually saw her muscles relax. I know I heard her let out an audible sigh of relief.

For the rest of the party, she seemed more relaxed, more eager to participate in discussions between parents, easier to laugh and talk. Maybe it was my imagination. I hope not. Maybe I won one today. A parent that is. . . .

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