Like a tiny magic-loving lass on the eve before Christmas with sugar plums dancing through my head was I before having children. In my head I envisioned myself as exactly what I wanted to be. The “cool” mom. With the nice clothes and the nice non-momish car, NEVER a soccer-mom sticker covered minivan. I would have perfect clean-faced children whom I never let have spaz attacks in public (let… snort). They would eat what I told them when I told them to and NEVER suck their thumbs, crap their pants or spray piss all over the bathroom.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with… well… some of those things (pants crapping and piss spraying is never good)- it just wasn’t in my pre-pop delusions of parental grandeur. A fantasy, if you will. La la land.
Those kinds of dreams aren’t bad, I think most of us have ideas of how wonderfully fabulously perfect life will be with a quiet constantly-happy never projectile-shitting or vomiting little baby. We’re so full of love and joy about the magical magicality that is about to enter our lives that reality can’t touch us. That’s LOVE my friends. Smooshy, wet, warm, disgustingly pink love.
It doesn’t take reality very long to giggle-snort while bitch-slapping your sleep deprived ass after birthing this pink smooshy love… but it was nice while it lasted, wasn’t it? The illusion of the SUPER-MOM! You quickly are forced to realize that some of those things you cooked up in your hormonal brain are inevitable or impossible to avoid. And that’s okay.
Or maybe that’s just me. Really, I can’t be sure- but I like to assume I have things in common with other parents in order to feel at least slightly normal.
So I guess I have to say- if you’re anything like NORMAL
maybe kind of NOT AT ALL INSANE ME… there are also a few things you are still grasping to from that period of “perfect mom” delusion. Maybe even only one- but it’s SOMETHING, and something is better than nothing.
Maybe it’s your pre-baby jeans, or just the absolute refusal to EVER resort to the epic fail that are highwaisted light wash camel toe causing Mom-Jeans. Perhaps you’ve just sworn off ever trying to force brussel sprouts on your spawn or cleaning their face off with your spit.
For me, one of the last strongholds in my battle to stay the awesomely cool fantastical mommy of my dreams… is a refusal to join the PTA.
I know what some of you are thinking, because I’m quite positive the officials at Holden’s school are thinking the same thing- be proactive in your child’s education! Join the PTA! What’s wrong with the PTA? Don’t you want to stay informed about what happens in your kid’s school?
My answer is always: Duh. Of course. But why do I have to join the PTA to do it? I remember getting dragged to PTA meetings with my mom as a child…. There is nothing about going through that again that interests me. No.
Maybe it’s just because my kid is 5 and not involved in after school activities… or maybe because I feel like I’m allergic to other parents and kids that attend school with mine. Maybe it’s that the PTA reminds me of swimming through a sea of dirty white sneakers, tube socks, and mom jeans discussing bake sales and booster clubs and that just puts my whole body into cringe-mode.
Yes, I know the PTA is an integral part of the school system. I know they do important things. I know it’s not a bitter-old-biddies club (kinda) and perhaps they are not a tyrannical group of crazies that think they run the joint- but why do they need ME? Can’t they just take my $5 without devouring my soul and forever forcing me to list myself as a “PTA Member”? Can’t I just send in baked goods and utensils when asked, attend parent teacher conferences, help my kid with his homework- and have THAT be enough? Why must I sign away my evenings to sit in a classroom or cafetorium (you know… a cafeteria/auditorium. I hope that isn’t only here, because it is quite the spectacle to behold) pondering whether or not to get new uniforms or how to spend the booster money or how to RAISE the booster money. I don’t want to booster anything!
That’s right- I am holding on to my one last deluded dream-mom fantasy by refusing to join the PTA. Even though I don’t drive a minivan, I figure I gave up the ‘cool’ factor there when I bought an SUV that’s listed as a “wagon” on my registration. For shame.
It’s all I’ve got! Don’t judge me.
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