Tag Archives: school

Rather Have a Wedgie

“…and there I was, walking around the store, not wearing any underwear.”

That was the line, verbatim.  Yep, she said she was not wearing underwear in the store.  Hmmm…was she wearing underwear now?  Did she ever wear underwear?  Did I really want to know?

I don’t know this lady’s name.  Presumably she has a child in the same school as my daughter.  I was walking on the sidewalk in front of the school with my two boys, on our way to pick up their sister.  I passed this lady as she was going the other way with another woman and a few kids.  As she walked past, I heard her say sotto voce to her friend, well, you know.  No “chones”.  

If I knew her at all, I would have certainly asked her why she wasn’t wearing underwear, oh, and what store was this?  But even I don’t have the audacity to ask a complete stranger why she wasn’t wearing any pantsy poos in the store, especially when the remark wasn’t addressed to me, and I really shouldn’t even know she wasn’t wearing any.  But still, I did wonder…

Maybe it went something like this:

They were going to be late for school again!  Dripping from the shower, a threadbare towel covering what it must, she checks on her kids and realizes they are doing what they do every morning: nothing.

“Johnny, get your bunky out of bed now!  You are going to be late!  Don’t make me come in after you, mister!”

“Suzie, stop playing with your breakfast and get dressed!”

“Geez, Mom, you’re not dressed,” Suzie observes.

“Don’t you backtalk me, Miss Smarty Pants!  Go put your clothes on!” 

Sheesh!  Why does every morning have to be such an ordeal?  She hurries into her room to get dressed, and rummages through her underwear drawer.  “Oh, great!  I don’t even have any clean underwear!  Well, there’s no time to wash any now, I’ll just have to go au naturel.”  So she tugs on a pair of lightweight knit capri pants and a t-shirt, stuffs her feet into sneakers, and runs out to shift her kids into second gear.

She has to hover over Suzie to make sure the little girl’s engine doesn’t stall getting dressed.  “You’ll just have to wear the pink shirt, the blue one is dirty.  Along with everything else.”  Good grief, why is it that she can do four loads of laundry every day, but nothing is ever clean? 

“Put your homework in your backpack.  Come on, move!”

“OK, Johnny, where are your shoes?  Did you brush?  Oooh, don’t pick your nose! Oh, man, especially don’t eat it!  Well, that’s going to have to be breakfast, buddy, because we are late!”

She tosses the kids into the family van, and heads off to school.  At the designated “unloading zone” in front of the school, she hits the button that automatically slides open those smooth van doors, and tells her little darlin’s,  “Get out!”

“Mom, we forgot to get juice boxes!  You’re supposed to bring juice boxes for the class party today, remember?”

“OK, OK, don’t panic.  The party isn’t supposed to start until 10.  I’ll go to Target and I’ll have them to your class in plenty of time, OK?  Now go!” (Actually, except for the underwear part, up to this point it sounds more like my day.)

Well, no time to go home and fix the lingerie problem now.  Besides, she needs laundry soap anyway, so she’ll just get that too while she’s at Target.  Heading the other direction, she arrives at her favorite big box store.  Parks, grabs her purse, jumps out, clicks the little button on her key ring that magically makes the mobile rectangle lock up tight, and trips into Target.  Gosh, maybe there is time to just look at those v-neck sleeveless sweaters that were in the Sunday ad.  She ambles across the store to the ladies clothing section.   Is it her imagination, or is she getting some odd looks?  No, that woman definitely sneered.  Well, she has lost a little weight lately.  Probably just jealous.  Women can be so catty. 

In the ladies department she finds the sale sweaters.  Hmm…blue would go best with her bleached hair, but red is so… saucy!  She selects a red sweater in a small, OK, better get the medium, who is she kidding, and heads to a mirror where she holds it up to herself.  Oooh, red is nice! Especially with these white capris she’s wearing.  Hold on there a minute.  Is that…oh, no.  These pants are see-through! 

Well, that explains a lot!  She holds the sweater strategically, gets a cart, pushes it in front of her, walking very, very close to the cart.  She pinches her cheeks together tightly (you know which cheeks I mean), hoping it will make her booty smaller and her pants hang a little more loosely from the rear view.  She can’t leave without those stupid juice boxes, so taking very quick small little steps so she doesn’t have to put much space between her body and the cart or unclench her cheeks, she goes to the food section and throws a few 10-packs of Capri Sun in the cart.  She usually gets the 100% juice stuff for her own kids, but this is cheaper, and heck, she’s not going to pay a fortune to hydrate someone else’s kid!  Doing the same sort of geisha walk, she hurries to get laundry soap so she can take care of her little problem sometime today, and heads to the checkout. 

The checker looks at her oddly as she obsessively hugs the cart, but hey, he thinks, whatever floats your boat, lady.  She makes it to the car, throws her bags in the back, and thankfully heads home where she will have just enough time to put on some very dark, very loose pants, and deliver the juice boxes. 

Well, it could have happened that way.  I imagined a few other scenarios as well, but I like the G rated version best.  She didn’t look like she had many public R (or worse) moments.  Maybe a few PG-13.  But if I ever see her again, I’m going to have a hard time looking her in the face, ya know what I mean?

Harper Valley Mom

I suppose there must be one at every school.   After all, they’ve written songs about her.  You know, the Harper Valley PTA mom.  The kind who looks like she might have a job that’s illegal in most states, and who makes you suddenly conscious of your sweatpants and sneakers.

I ran into ours, almost literally, about a month ago.  I had kissed my daughter goodbye and was rushing my son to his classroom when…boom! There she was.  Right in front of me, about two inches from my nose.  She’s very tall; I’m very not.  “Excuse me,” I said hastily to her bright pink waistline.  She looked down distractedly, then looked away as if she hadn’t seen anyone or anything, and kept on walking. 

“Hmmph!”  I thought.  “You’re in the wrong part of town, honey.” 

Her hair is brown streaked with large chunks of blond.  She had on enough makeup for a Tammy Faye convention, and wore big Jackie O sunglasses.  Her top, what there was of it, was tight, sleeveless, bright pink, low cut, and showed her flat (damn her!) belly.  She wore tight, black, low rise pants with flared legs, and pink stiletto pumps.  The kind of pumps that have a very rude slang name, if you know what I mean.  She stood out like a Kodacolor figure in an old black and white movie.  

In contrast, I wore sneakers, jeans, and a bleach stained sweatshirt.  I had on no makeup, and in fact had barely combed my hair before dashing out the door.  I am sure Harper, as I like to call her, has never cleaned mildew out of a shower, let alone stained her sweatshirt (like she has anything as dumpy as a sweatshirt) with Tilex.  

I sneer, but perhaps a part of me, a teensy weensy part, and I’m not admitting anything, mind you, but just maybe part of me is the tiniest bit jealous.  Maybe.  Because if I were to wear the same outfit, the adjectives that would come to mind would not be “cheap” or “sleazy”, but rather “comical” and “pathetic”.   I mean, wouldn’t we all like to know that we could be sleazy, if we wanted to?  

I am sure I am doing this poor woman a terrible injustice.  She looked very young (damn her again!), and probably hasn’t been beaten down enough by life to think that Mom clothes are OK.  I’m sure underneath the scant clothes, inside that tall, taut body (damn, damn, damn!), beats a heart of gold.  Or something.   She’s just a great gal who’s also a candidate for “What Not to Wear”.  Oh, how I would love to hear what Stacy and Clinton would say about her! 

I know it’s wrong to judge, especially on appearances.  And I feel badly about that.  Sort of.  After all, I certainly wouldn’t want someone to decide from looking at me that I am slovenly, thick headed, and unemployable.  On the other hand, I dress so that no one will look at me.  I definitely want to stay in black and white, at least until I get out of this mind blurring little kids phase.  And really, I am in black and white mentally.  My whole being is focused on my children, which I guess is a little unhealthy. 

I can snipe about what this woman is teaching her daughter.  About her message to the world carried by her appearance.  But what am I saying?  What am I teaching my daughter?  That once you have kids you don’t matter anymore?  That fun goes out of your life with the placenta?   That a good mom is selfless to the point of martyrdom? 

Hmmm… 

Since then, I’ve joined Weight Watchers.  Gospel truth.    I’ve lost the first five pounds, and I’m starting to think that my wardrobe is a little drab for the thinner me that will be emerging.  I hear Macy’s is having a spring sale…perhaps a little hot pink? 

 Look out, Harper, you may have some competition.

Is It Friday Yet?

I live in a nuthouse, of which I am, of course, the chief nut.  Mmmm, nuts.  I just started a diet…that sounds good.  Oh, where was I?  Right, a nuthouse.  We are loud and disorderly.    And late.  Always late!  L-A-T-E. 

I just realized that if I added another T, I’d have a latte.  I love lattes.  I wonder if there’s some sort of sick correlation there.  

But I digress.  The point I was eventually going to make is that the members of my loving but goofy family all conspire against each other to ensure that we never arrive anywhere on time, or at least not without a frantic rush.   We cannot seem to pull our family together into a well trained get-your-butt-out-the-door team.   And when our butts do get out the door, it seems somebody always forgot something, has to go poop, feels like hurling, can’t get his/her seatbelt buckled, feels compelled to have a tantrum, and so on.  Since my husband is at his job in San Francisco all day, most of this chaos is usually with Cashew Mom (mmm…) at the helm.  I try.  I swear I try.    

My husband understands in principal, but I’m not sure he understands just how nerve racking it is being me.  Every now and then, I like to give him just a little taste of 24/7 in a Planters can.  (Mixed, salted. Mmmm…. ) 

Take last Thursday, for example: 

My bed was warm and comfy.  Daylight was just beginning to peak under the blinds.  I cracked open an eye and squinted at my watch.  That’s right, I wear my watch to bed.  I’m too nearsighted to see the clock.   6:45. Good, I could log Z’s for another 15 minutes.  

15 minutes later I checked my watch again.  7:30!  Impossible! 

“Aaaargh!”  LATE!  We were going to be LATE!  I flew out of bed, shouting to my husband that we were LATE! LATE! 

I stumbled to my son’s room and shook him awake. 

“Get up, Buddy!  We’re going to be LATE!” 

“Huh?  Ok, I have to go potty.” 

Moments later I simulated a small earthquake with my daughter’s bed as the epicenter to get her moving.  She groaned and rolled over.  The trembler went up a couple of notches on the Richter scale.  

“OK, OK, I’m up!” she said, pulling the covers over her head. 

I yanked the covers off the bed, including the sheet.  Hard to snuggy up now! 

In the next 25 minutes a frantic scuffle ensued, jammies flying hither nither, small socks rudely tugged onto reluctant feet, cereal scarfed, homework hastily crammed into backpacks.  

“OK, let’s go!’ 

“Wait, I can’t find my jacket!” 

“Aaaargh!”  I was beginning to sound like a pirate. 

“What’s going on now?” my husband asked. 

“Jacket, jacket!  She can’t find her jacket!  We’re LATE!” 

“Not my problem”, he said, newspaper under his arm, headed toward the bathroom. 

Whoa!  Hold on there a minute, cowboy!  Not your problem?  Well, I didn’t have time to argue the point, but I was about to give him a problem.  A big one.           

We headed out the door, and started toward school.  We live less than a block away from the elementary school, yet we are always late.  LATE.   And it’s not all mom’s fault, because it’s a hell of a trip down the street.  My oldest son likes school, he just hates the walk.  He thinks I should drive him, but the closest to the school I can get a parking space is two houses down from our own.   We don’t need to drive just to get two houses closer.  

“Owwwie!  My shoes hurt!  My toes feel funny!”  My son stopped mid-sidewalk, looking tortured.  

“What’s wrong with your shoes?  They were fine a minute ago!” 

“I hate these shoes!  They’re too big!  My toes don’t touch this part!” he said, pointing to the tip of his shoes.  “I want my old shoes back!” 

As patiently as I could muster, I explained that when your toes touch the end, your shoes are too small.  That’s why we bought new shoes. 

“If you still don’t like them by the end of the day, you won’t have to keep wearing them, but I think you’ll get used to them. 

Pouty faced and not looking convinced, Jackson hobbled a few steps further. 

He stopped again. 

“Itchy, itchy!  I’m all itchy!  My legs itch!”  He did a wacky sort of dance, hopping and scratching wildly. 

Hmmph.  Must be allergic to walking. 

A little farther down the road he turned up the heat. 

“Ouch!  My penis hurts! My pants are hurting it! Help me!”  he exclaimed, clutching his crotch in feigned agony. 

Good grief!  Maybe he could have said that a little louder.  I don’t think every neighbor heard. 

“Well, if your pants are rubbing, just, well, move it to one side,” I suggested.  Where was my husband when I needed him?  Oh yeah, he was in his “office” with the newspaper, not having a problem.  

“No, you do it!” 

Now that is outside my job description.  And how to explain that if I helped him adjust right there on the street, I feared some passerby would think I was molesting a small boy on his way to school, and call protective services.   But time was tickin’, and I still had to return home and take a toddler to preschool.   Exasperatedly, I turned his back to the street, grabbed the waistband of his Scooby Doo undies, and gave them a good shake. 

“How’s that?” 

“Better, I guess.” 

And so it went.  Eventually we arrived at school.  LATE, but present and accounted for. 

The next day my husband took the kids to school. 

They hadn’t left the porch when he said impatiently  “What’s wrong with it?  Well, just move it until it doesn’t hurt anymore!”  He looked at me with frustration stamped across his face.  He didn’t have time to fool around.  He still had to get to work! 

I looked him square in the eye and closed the door.   I could hear my husband’s irritated voice as they walked down the steps.  “Now what?  There’s nothing wrong with your socks!”  

Smiling, I went to poor myself another cup of coffee.  I was willing to bet they’d crack his shell. 

Not my problem.

Still Going Back to School

At 42 years of age, I am long out of elementary school.  But with just a thought I can call up the butterflies launched into flight each year in recognition of the first day of school.  I grew up here in Walnut Creek, and Walnut Acres was my school.  The weeks before school was to begin, the excitement began to build.  My mother would take my sister and me shopping for new clothes.  We would get five or six new dresses (girls were not allowed to wear pants to school).    We each got a new package of pretty colored underwear and a new pack of white undershirts with little bows sewed onto the bodice.   My mother would take me to the Junior Bootery, the only store that carried wide width shoes for my chubby little feet, and I would get one pair of school shoes to last the whole year.

Class assignments were mailed in August, and every day I would ask if mine had come yet.  There was some anxiety associated with this, anticipating the unknown.  I can still remember every teacher, from Mrs. Anderson in kindergarten to Mrs. Templeton in 6th grade.  Back in those days elementary school was K through 6.  As soon as I knew what teacher I was assigned, I would call my friend Christy to see who she had.  My mother would check with Mrs. Seamount across the street to see which class her son Brian was in.  The last week of the summer, we would go to the school to find my new classroom.  Then my mother would take me back to the entrance of the school, and have me find the classroom again on my own.  I would try to peak in the windows, and gaze at the door.  What would it be like?  Would I have any friends in my class?  Was the teacher nice?

The day before the big event, I would pick out my first day outfit.  Everything would be laid out, waiting.  I had a new book bag, paper, pencils, and erasers all ready to go.  And of course, a special new lunch box.  One year I had a Monkees lunchbox.  Another year, we bought a plain brown vinyl lunch pail with a zippered closure, and my mother put violet appliqués all over it.  It was beautiful.  Fresh from the bath, my damp hair neatly braided, I got to select a new pair of undies, and put on one of my new white undershirts to wear to bed.  It would still be hot in September and we didn’t have air conditioning, so the window was open.  I could hear the crickets.  It wouldn’t be quite dark yet, and Mommy would let us color in bed for a few minutes.  But I could never focus on my coloring book.  My heart would beat a little faster than normal, and I would feel funny in my tummy.  Surely I could never sleep. 

And here I am, years later, graying hair and all, still just as excited.  Only this time, it is my children who are going to school.   The routine has changed some since I was a child.  My children get many new outfits.  They get new shoes, but I do not expect them to last the whole school year.  Girls and boys can both wear shorts to school.  Book bags have been replaced with backpacks.  But still, it is a thrill to pick just the right backpack.  Should it be Hello Kitty or Barbie?  Ninja Turtles or Scooby Doo?  And of course a new lunchbox, in the same theme.

First day outfits are still carefully selected and laid out for the next day.  Flowered undies, Scooby Doo briefs, are tugged out of plastic packages.  Each child has a big bag of school supplies, as requested on the list from the school.  Clean and smelling of baby shampoo, they climb into bed.  A book or a video is allowed for just a little bit, because it is so hard to go to sleep this night!

The morning of the first day of school is the only day of the year I don’t have to take a steam shovel to get my daughter out of bed.  She is up before I am, gets dressed without a single nag, and is waiting at the door for me.  The rest of the year we barely make it to school on time, even though we live just down the street, but this one day she is ready to go and we are early.   I pull all three kids out to the front porch, and take our traditional “First Day of School” picture.  Happy scrubbed faces, new outfits and shoes, still stiff backpacks and unscuffed lunchboxes.  They are precious.

And I am excited.  Excited to meet the new teachers, to see what kids are in their classes, to learn what field trips there will be and see the new books.  Excited because my children are excited.  Because I get to be part of these days they will remember for the rest of their lives.  It is a privilege.  And each year, as I escort my little ones to their first day, I think “How lucky I am!”  This is the stuff life is made of.