I knew it was a dumb fucking idea as soon as I penciled in my name as a volunteer for the upcoming preschool Halloween party. I don’t know if I was using this as a catalyst for getting over my fear of other moms or other kids, but how fucking naive of me to think that this could bring upon me anything but misery, stress and one heaping hassle reaking of eau de soccer mom.
A slip of paper was returned to me at the start of last week. On it was the four moms volunteering for the party and our respective phone numbers. I figured at some point we would all meet up, maybe before or after school, and discuss the boring minutia involved in planning a successful preschool Halloween party that wouldn’t implode upon itself.
But apparently I don’t know shit about planning school functions, because when I walked into Chooch’s classroom last Friday morning, I was quickly cornered by some tall, nerdy mommy who assertively introduced herself as the mother of one of the girls in the class.
“I’m also one of the moms volunteering for the party next week,” she continued, and I tried with all of my might to stop feeling like she was looking down her nose at me. I really don’t deal well with condescention.
I figured she was going to ask me what my ideas were, maybe suggest that I hang back and wait for the other mom-broads to show up with their respective children, so we can sit down like grown-ups and work this shit out so it won’t wind up being a complete clusterfuck.
Again with the naivete.
“So I just happened to run into the other two moms on Wednesday. They’re cousins, so they already have been deciding what they’re going to do. One of them is taking care of the treat and the other is doing a craft. Now, I’m going to go to Eat n Park and get smiley cookies for the snack,” she prattled on, looking entirely too smug. “So, that leaves the game up to you. Will that be a problem?” There was something in her voice. Gilded haughtiness. Smarmy high-horseness. Whatever it was, it didn’t sit well with me.
I was stunned, almost to the point of silence; completely shocked. In my periphery, I could see bright flashing lights, probably from the blood vessels that were bursting.
In my perfect world, I’d have called her a cunt a hundred different ways and threatened her vagina with a wide assortment of spiny farm tools. But over the ringing in my ears, I could hear the laughter of Chooch’s schoolmates as they played before class. And then I looked down and saw Chooch at my side, waiting to ask me a question.
So I sucked in a deep breath and said, with the slightest sarcastic lilt, “Clearly it’s not going to be a problem.” I then informed her that I already had treat bags, and I intended to still use them.
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, and I can’t help but feel she didn’t really think that was fine at all, that some new mommy might have a chance to out-do all the veterans. “I’m bringing in tattoos for them, on top of the smiley cookies,” she went on, reminding me again of how pathetic her snack was going to be.
Smiley cookies? Seriously? Mother of the motherfucking year. I bet your daughter will be so proud that her mommy went to a restaurant to buy Halloween cookies when a REAL MOM (or in my case – A REAL MOM WITH A HENRY) was planning on baking Halloween CUPCAKES.
I left the school that morning in tears. It’s what repressed anger does to me. (And when it gets really bad, that’s when the uncontrollable laughter kicks in, but Henry is typically the only one who angers me enough to see that.) As soon as I walked into the house, I grabbed my phone and called Henry, wherein the tears turned into waterfalls.
“I’m going to go and talk to the teacher,” Henry barked. “That’s bullshit.”
“NO!” I wailed. “You’ll just make it worse!” Like I’m suddenly the kid who’s being bullied. But it’s true, and I thought a lot about it – it will make it worse for Chooch.
“Then just don’t help them at all,” Henry suggested. “Fuck them, let them do it all!”
“That’ll ruin it for Chooch,” I reasoned. “And he’s the only reason I wanted to help in the first place.”
So you know what? Fuck those broads. Not only am I still going to bring in the treat bags, but I’m still baking those fucking cupcakes. (And of course, you’ll translate to mean “Henry is still baking those fucking cupcakes.”)
Oh, they’ll get their fucking game. I’ll bring in a Ouija board, I don’t give a fuck.