It All Makes Sense Now

When you entered our lives 11 years ago, the kingdom celebrated with banners and trumpet song. You brought a joy to us beyond what we had ever imagined or experienced before.

We served you with delight; your interests became our interests, your passions our passions, whether it was Thomas the Tank Engine, or more recently, Legos. We read what you read. We watched what you watched. We eagerly awaited your next decree: "No hamburgers!" "No soccer!" "No early mornings!"

The depth of your strong emotions seemed to come from a place more regal than just a middle class, suburban family. Were you a changeling? Did you know something we did not know?

When you had a good day, all was right with the world. When your mood turned melancholy, the entire kingdom suffered. Our schedules, our rhythms, orbited around your young, brilliant sun.

We wondered endlessly: Were you properly fed, attired, rested?

Some days it felt as if the kingdom was being ruled, albeit benevolently, by a tiny dictator.

The way you would walk away from an open car door, not bothering to shut it, and the manner in which you would call out, "Where are my shoes?" when surely you were the only one who would know such a thing, were certain signs of someone of noble birth, who need not be bothered with the minutiae of daily life.

And now that the Day of the 5th Grade Medieval Feast is upon us and you have been appointed Lord of the Manor, it all makes perfect sense.

Lord Jake, as your humble servants we ask you to continue to shine your favor upon us.

Love,

Mom, Dad, and Molly

p.s. At least I didn't have to make Chicken Pudding this year.

Chicken Pudding was Yucky, but Lisa G. is Lucky!

Congrats Lisa G. for winning the very first An Inch of Gray giveaway. A $15 Starbucks card is coming your way!

Okay, I did try to give away my weird black sweater back in February but no one was interested.

Colonial Day went well. Half the class liked my dish, half hated it, and the fruit of my loins refused to try it. No big surprise there. The photos are being held hostage on my broken camera, to be shared at a later date, but it wasn’t too appetizing to look at anyway.

I So Deserve This, Part II

Okay, so I need to amend my earlier post about my Colonial Day food assignment. I told you I had to make Chicken Pie.

I read it wrong, perhaps because at least Chicken Pie, or a pot-pie, is in my realm of comprehension. But NO, my assignment is "Chicken Pudding." I feel so much better now.

Friday Confession: Psycho-Mom

I was going to write about my annual shrinkage, in which I tend to lose 5 stubborn pounds every winter, through no virtue or effort on my part, only to see it land back soundly on my thighs each May just in time for pool season. I was going to regale you with tales of this squandered thinness from Nov-April a chilly time in which even I don’t see myself in a state of undress.

I was going to lament the 5 lb’s presence in mid-July when even the longest skirted swimsuit can’t disguise it. I was going to deliberate whether I should try to keep it off this time, by cutting back on ice cream and starting to exercise again. I was going to leave you with a wise, borderline profound and mostly sincere statement about how losing those 5 lbs does not bring me happiness, for happiness cannot be found in things. But I won’t.

Instead, I have the pressing need to write about something else. Psycho-Mom. I tried to leave her home from Molly’s class Christmas party today, but she snuck into the car with me. Two cups of Constant Comment tea and a Diet Dr. Pepper beforehand, almost as sure an antidote as garlic to a vampire, didn’t ward her off either.

This has been the unfortunate situation over the past few years on field trips and lunch duty, too. I try to shake her off, and sometimes I make it through the craft and snack portion of the party without her rearing her ugly head, sometimes I don’t.

Molly has expressed embarrassment at Psycho-Mom’s unpleasant outbursts. Other moms tend to turn away, much as you would from a train wreck, while sneaking the occasional peek.

Why am I the only bitchy mom in these here parts? The others have wonderful soothing voices and don’t seem driven to psychosis when 16 second graders are all yelling, “My turn! Pick me! She cheated! Me! Me!” at them. The other moms are pictures of serenity, genuine kindness, and Christian restraint. I think of Michelle Duggar, who gave birth to her 18th child yesterday and has never raised her voice to her kids.

I’d almost made it through the whole party when I decided to take the last 10 minutes to play “Christmas Pictionary” on the board. Bad move. There was not enough time for everyone to go, and they all crowded around shouting out answers. The crush of bodies at the board threatened to turn into a WHO concert, or another Black Friday tragedy at Wal-mart. Psycho-Mom was starting to sweat. The clues were too easy, everyone was right and everyone deserved to go next. Four children held dry-erase markers, poised to go. Kids’ eyes started to well with tears. Pure chaos.

By this time the other moms were checking out, cleaning up and vacating. I wish they’d left a few minutes earlier, before Psycho-Mom really spread her wings.

I don’t really know how to paint this picture for you, other than to say it stunk. Kids, knowing that not only was I a horribly unfair mom who had let her own daughter go first, started bemoaning the injustice of it all. The enforcers, key 2nd grade girls, tried to regain some semblance of control by bossing the other kids around, and complaining to me, not knowing how short Psycho-mom’s fuse could be.

When I finally lost it, I insisted they all sit down and I may, just may, have uttered in an extra-loud voice something as self-righteous and pouty as, “ Sit down! Mouths closed! I am hurt, even wounded, that you would be screaming and shouting at me during this Christmas party. Especially while one of your poor fellow students is trying, in vain, to draw our blessed Baby Jesus on the board for you to guess! What, I ask you, would Baby Jesus think?” Crazy mom on Aisle 3, perhaps?

I know when I don’t volunteer for Girl Scout outings, sleepovers and class parties I may look like an uncaring person, who leaves others to pick up her slack, but I’m starting to think that the best gift I can give this year is to avoid these events altogether. To the children, the teachers, and my fellow mommies, I am so sorry this took me so long to figure out.