Read Blacklisted from the PTA Online
Authors: Lela Davidson
Blacklisted from the PTA (8 page)
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.
. B
EFORE 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.
H
ALLOWEEN COSTUMES
. A
ND 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.
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.”
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 very 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.
PTA. A
DMIT IT
. Y
OU
’
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:
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.
This is a drastic step, but if you miss enough of those 10 a.m. meetings, you’ll never be asked to join another committee. The beauty of this technique is that to be successful you don’t actually have to get a job, but merely convince others that you have.
You will eventually be asked to create an adorable sciencethemed bulletin board made of Q-Tips, or a stunning botanical scene for the second grade musical created entirely of peat moss. If you’re in a hurry to get the boot, volunteer for this. It’s just so easy to make something horrid.
There is nothing to get mouths a-gaping like a little ink below the waistline. Strategic use of low-rise jeans can insulate you from years of Fall Carnival shifts, spaghetti socials, and any other event that would put you in proximity of any Mr. PTAs.
It doesn’t matter what it is—balloons, paper plates, napkins—go against the committee’s ruling on a particular nuance of forest green and you can kiss your PTA career goodbye.
Work with your personality to find the most effective way to enrage the PTA Queen. It’s important to understand that PTA Queens often operate outside the official hierarchy of the PTA system. Learn who they are, irritate them, and go on with your merry non-PTA existence.
This is perhaps the most drastic step of all, but in many cases can result not only in your being shunned from the PTA, but every other well-meaning, time-sucking volunteer organization in town.
Keep all these in mind next time you stroll your happy little self down to the PTA meeting. Because really, aren’t they all a little easier than just saying no?
for us. We didn’t have home theaters, decent video games, or twenty-four-seven kids’ television programming. But the thing that’s really changed everything is cell phones and the privacy they offer our children . Before my son started middle school I had made up my mind that I would not cave to the pressure.
Cut to Christmas and my son tearing open a cell phone while his little sister calculates the number of months she has to wait for hers under the “big-brother-broke-them-in” algorithm. I’m still not convinced he needs a phone, but he wanted one and it was Christmas.
I was weak. Or maybe noble, triumphing over my jealousy. Having a personal phone—not to mention a modest texting allowance—in the 6th grade? I never had it so good.
Back in the olden days we didn’t even have cordless phones. Telephones were all attached to a wall, either in your home or in public. You carried a quarter for a payphone and everyone could see you cry when your mom forgot to pick you up from soccer practice. If you missed the bus you didn’t call anyone; you walked home. When you got sick at school you had to use the office phone with its rotary dial and plastic cubes across the bottom. To have a private conversation at home you stretched the phone cord down that hall, pinching it in your bedroom door, then prayed your mom wouldn’t detach it from the wall while you were asking your BFF if she wanted to “go with” the new boy (who was named Curt or Tyler or Rob). Those deliriously fortunate enough to have a phone in their rooms knew their parents were listening in from the kitchen.
Today’s kids don’t have to worry about parents overhearing conversations, partly because phones are rarely used for speaking to one another anymore. The important information— what band is cool, whose house they’re sleeping over at, and which color Converse to wear tomorrow—is all relayed via text. It goes without saying that back in the olden days we didn’t have our own secret language that our parents couldn’t figure out. We had to be clever and make plans while they weren’t listening or watching.
Now kids speak in an ever-evolving code of letters and symbols—ikr? It’s a miracle our olden days thumbs didn’t fall off like the vestigial tail from lack of use.
Popular as texting has become, I still thought my 11-yearold son was too young for it. I figured he just used the phone as a status symbol and to call me on the [many] days I forgot it was my turn at carpool. I didn’t realize he was using the text function at all until I started using it on my own phone. When my texts racked up I worried about the potential overage costs so I logged into my account. While I was slightly under my plan limit of two hundred texts, my son was up to eight hundred twenty—two weeks into the billing cycle. I immediately called my provider to request unlimited texting.
I sensed a golden opportunity. His excess was just what I needed to institute the partial pay policy I should have started when we gave him the phone. I confronted him with the facts.