Whereby I Elect Myself Prez of the Good Mother Club

So PC and I were bitching chatting via email as is our usual and most favorite form of bitching expressing our thoughts with one another when we get on the topic of insult exchanging with spouses. We both feel excellently adept at this form of communication and are not ashamed to admit it. We know these piss-fests are just momentary freakouts that have little to do with the bigger picture love kind of thing and plus, we both listen to enough girl singer-songwriters to know we are not the only ones to pick a couple bones here and there.

The chat went like this:

PC, regarding insult exchanges: It's that time of year again.
Me: Wait? What? There's a specific time of year?
PC: Nah, there's no specific time frame for insults. It's just that at this time of year (probably Christmas, too) I realize fully how little my husband knows about what goes on around here...

And with that, I added yet another item to my giant list of reasons why I hate the end of the school year. Because PC is right, and I dare any stay-at-home parent to tell me that the not-at-home parent has any freakin' clue how much a teacher gift should cost, how many are needed, when exactly each "concert" is (and bonus points for where), and whose lunching at which luncheon at what time. Which is not to say they should know all this minutiae I guess or even really care, but when I'm beat and cranky and all, wait, what did you say? and he wants to know why I'm not listening.... Um, flood gates? Open now.

Even my brother in law, who is to be adored on so many levels particularly with regard to his devotion to his children, has told many a co-worker that his daughter will soon finish the second grade. When indeed she is finishing the third grade. Probably this was a typo of the mouth or brain, but at his expense, I'll use it to exaggerate my point. (And I'll mention as well that The Stud has raced home for every event he's been invited to this year. My ponytail holder is off to men like him and my brother in law and even PC's husband who work their asses off at work and still make the show when they can or the game or the concert or what have you.)

But that doesn't mean they GET AT ALL what happens 'round here this time of year.

Did I mention my opinions about the end of the school year?

Seriously, if it weren't for the garden that acts as my dirty therapist and worm-riddled gym all in one, and if it weren't for the view off the porch of my three kids (and two others) playing a game of snake bite/CPR (don't ask) until 7:15 at night, and if it weren't for more boats going in the water every day like lemmings, I swear to you I would seriously dislike spring. And by dislike I mean despise. Can you imagine how I might feel if I didn't care for the teachers my kids have been lucky enough to know this year?

A year or two ago I laid bare my resentment for the "graduation" season in an essay in our local newspaper (which I link to here blog-style because if you read the actual one you will know where I live and probably hunt me down and throw leftover-from-the-class-party watermelon rinds at my front door) and which probably also marks the moment when people started pointing at me and whispering. I kid. But it is true that in that article I was not -- how do you say? -- all cuddly mama type.

But after it ran, I was surprised not so much by the quantity of people who approached me (it was bazillions after all, because I am that good) but by the quality: it was the parents (read: moms -- be damned political correctedness!) who I considered the most cheerful of the volunteer-mommy types. The ones who said HELLZ YEAH (sometimes furtively, so no one in ear shot could hear) were the ones I assumed were cutting out heart-shaped peanut butter sandwiches for their kids' lunch boxes and literally living for the video-tapeable moments the end of the school year brings. Not so much as it turned out, and so I was forced to slap myself in the face with the whole book and cover thing.

Duh. Why wouldn't these always-saying-yes and always-taking-a-shift moms (like me) be all pissed off and exhausted and JUST DONE WITH IT ALL and the seemingly endless parties and "concerts" and gifts and sliced oranges and tie-dyed shirts and the struggle to get a kid who always loved school to even go on a beautiful sunny day? The difference between me and them: I put down my gripes like the fucking town idiot crier and they just complain about it alone. Beyond that, we're all the Good Mothers that make up the Good Mother Club ...but yo! I still get to be the President.

Want in? It's easy: just don't pretend that every stinking thing about being a parent or every thing that comes with being a parent is completely.totally.like.awesome and you're in.

You must however sign up for a shift, and by that I mean: do something where you live that matters (be it PTO, food pantry, voter registration, you name it), and I also mean: remind the people around you that there are others like you. Because there are. Beyond that, there are no fees, no dress code, no nothing.

You in?