About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The most compelling turkey story you'll ever read
I am so excited. After three months of trying I, Mrs. Mullet, have finally gotten my name on the fucking snack sign-up sheet at my son’s nursery school.
Aren't you excited for me?
I’m bringing in turkey rolls, to be exact, to be eaten by the little darlings after their Thanksgiving skit. Delicious, condiment- and cheese-free turkey rolls. Mmmmm.
You would think that the desire to contribute snacks is one that would be easily appeased, but getting on that sign-up sheet has been absurdly difficult.
You see, of all the nursery school moms, I am one of two that works.
Oh, shut up. This isn't going to be an us vs. them post. It's about turkey, for Pete's sake!
I wasn’t being stereotypical when I mentioned that my eye candy is limited to stay-at-home moms in yoga pants. Literally, there’s a yoga class held next door to the nursery school during class time; they all walk over together and work out.
(Who, me, jealous?)
During morning drop-off, I bring Junior into the school, kiss him good-bye, then look at my watch and realize I have 10 minutes in which to make a 20-minute drive. At the exact moment I make that realization, the teacher reminds everyone that the upcoming week’s snack sign-up sheet has just been posted on the bulletin board.
As the other women amble over to the board and casually discuss whether they’ll bring in cupcakes or graham crackers, I trip my way out the door, over children and over more women in yoga pants. By the time I make my way back to the sign-up sheet at the next day’s drop-off, there are no empty slots. Not even for sliced fruit!
Is it so wrong that I want a turn to slice the damn fruit?
Then, this morning, in a cosmic occurrence similar to that of Mars aligning with Saturn, the teacher announced the sign-up sheet posting as I was walking in. Heavens to Betsy!
I shoved Junior out of the way, ran over and wrote in my name. In big letters. Huge letters. Turkey rolls: MRS. FRICKEN MULLET. YES! I WILL BRING IN TURKEY ROLLS. MRS. MULLET WAS HERE. 2011.
I turned around, immensely satisfied. I’m not sure what I expected. Applause? Nods of approval that yes, working mothers can feed children too?
No one cared. And really, it’s silly of me to expect them to.
But I care. And that’s all that matters.
Now step away from the sign-up sheet.