“Can you please take Precious home with you after school today? I have to donate an organ to a needy person, but I should be done with that by, oh, say six o’clock. It’s just a spleen or somethin’.”
Of course, on another level, it gnawed at me a bit that my baby’s science project was only an “alternate.”
It was like being the first runner-up in a beauty pageant or lieutenant governor or even vice president. These are positions that are historically lackluster. Why do you think Cheney shot that old man in the face? Every now and then you want it to be all about you .
“What does ‘alternate’ mean?” Soph asked that night.
“It means that if something happens to one of the six real winners, you get to take their place and advance in the competition.”
“You mean like if they got sick or something?”
“Yes, or if someone planted a rumor that they bought the whole project on the Internet and had it overnighted from some smart kid in Wisconsin.”
“Mommy, you didn’t!”
No, I didn’t. But it was tempting. Sometimes it’s exhausting trying to stay in good with the Popular Mommies, even if it is just for selfish reasons. They’re always coming up with new ways to stress me out.
Standing outside our cars in the pick up line at carpool one afternoon, I overheard them comparing their teacher gifts, to be presented on the last day of school.
Teacher gifts?
I don’t remember that one when I was growing up. If we gave our overworked, underpaid teachers anything at all, it was probably an awkward hug and a promise to (snicker, snicker) “read a lot over the summer.”
But the teacher gift is a Requirement now. It’s like the horrifically named “pushing gift” that is now presented from husband to wife practically at the moment the bundle of joy is being propelled into a world in which there are more votes for American Idol contestants than the U.S. president (sad) but offers 182 choices of presweetened breakfast cereal (happy). I have known women who clamped their thighs shut and refused to deliver their baby until their own duh-hubby had shown up with sufficient bling.
Doctor: “Push, Mrs. Lardbottom! Push! It’s tiiiiiimmme!”
Mrs. L.: “Right away, doctor. Just a minute. Darius, where’s my pushing present? This is when you’re supposed to give it to me. Darius?”
Darius: “Huh? Pushing present? What’s that?”
Doctor: “I can see the head now. This baby is coming! Push now. One…two…”
Mrs. L.: “Oh, this baby ain’t coming into a world where his cheap bastard daddy didn’t even have sense enough to buy me a pushing present. Forget that shit.”
Doctor (getting impatient): “Look, Mr. Lardbottom, just give her the present. (then, cheerily) This little one is ready to meet his parents!”
Darius Lardbottom: “But, but, er, I don’t have anything.”
Doctor: (removing gloves, paper gown, and hat) “Then I believe that my work here is done.”
The Perfect, Popular Mommies look down their surgically altered noses at the loser mommies who don’t buy anything for the teacher at the end of the year or, worse, give Avon.
It’s yet another area in which they get to do the Mommy Superior dance. They know that it’s equally crucial to get the teacher gift in on time and with a MVA (maximum viewing audience).
See, if you get the teacher gift in too late, no one will know all the time and effort and expense you went to. Except the teacher, which, I realize, should be the point, but that doesn’t get you anywhere when it comes to impressing the Other Mommies.
This fierce, and completely unnecessary, desire to be the best mommy is bigger than us. Why do you think so many of us are turning to meth?
No, sorry. What I meant to say was, why do you think so many turn to professional party planners and life coaches and therapists and Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey eaten by the pint in the blue glow of infomercials for thirty-dollar spaghetti drainers hours after
Of course, on another level, it gnawed at me a bit that my baby’s science project was only an “alternate.”
It was like being the first runner-up in a beauty pageant or lieutenant governor or even vice president. These are positions that are historically lackluster. Why do you think Cheney shot that old man in the face? Every now and then you want it to be all about you .
“What does ‘alternate’ mean?” Soph asked that night.
“It means that if something happens to one of the six real winners, you get to take their place and advance in the competition.”
“You mean like if they got sick or something?”
“Yes, or if someone planted a rumor that they bought the whole project on the Internet and had it overnighted from some smart kid in Wisconsin.”
“Mommy, you didn’t!”
No, I didn’t. But it was tempting. Sometimes it’s exhausting trying to stay in good with the Popular Mommies, even if it is just for selfish reasons. They’re always coming up with new ways to stress me out.
Standing outside our cars in the pick up line at carpool one afternoon, I overheard them comparing their teacher gifts, to be presented on the last day of school.
Teacher gifts?
I don’t remember that one when I was growing up. If we gave our overworked, underpaid teachers anything at all, it was probably an awkward hug and a promise to (snicker, snicker) “read a lot over the summer.”
But the teacher gift is a Requirement now. It’s like the horrifically named “pushing gift” that is now presented from husband to wife practically at the moment the bundle of joy is being propelled into a world in which there are more votes for American Idol contestants than the U.S. president (sad) but offers 182 choices of presweetened breakfast cereal (happy). I have known women who clamped their thighs shut and refused to deliver their baby until their own duh-hubby had shown up with sufficient bling.
Doctor: “Push, Mrs. Lardbottom! Push! It’s tiiiiiimmme!”
Mrs. L.: “Right away, doctor. Just a minute. Darius, where’s my pushing present? This is when you’re supposed to give it to me. Darius?”
Darius: “Huh? Pushing present? What’s that?”
Doctor: “I can see the head now. This baby is coming! Push now. One…two…”
Mrs. L.: “Oh, this baby ain’t coming into a world where his cheap bastard daddy didn’t even have sense enough to buy me a pushing present. Forget that shit.”
Doctor (getting impatient): “Look, Mr. Lardbottom, just give her the present. (then, cheerily) This little one is ready to meet his parents!”
Darius Lardbottom: “But, but, er, I don’t have anything.”
Doctor: (removing gloves, paper gown, and hat) “Then I believe that my work here is done.”
The Perfect, Popular Mommies look down their surgically altered noses at the loser mommies who don’t buy anything for the teacher at the end of the year or, worse, give Avon.
It’s yet another area in which they get to do the Mommy Superior dance. They know that it’s equally crucial to get the teacher gift in on time and with a MVA (maximum viewing audience).
See, if you get the teacher gift in too late, no one will know all the time and effort and expense you went to. Except the teacher, which, I realize, should be the point, but that doesn’t get you anywhere when it comes to impressing the Other Mommies.
This fierce, and completely unnecessary, desire to be the best mommy is bigger than us. Why do you think so many of us are turning to meth?
No, sorry. What I meant to say was, why do you think so many turn to professional party planners and life coaches and therapists and Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey eaten by the pint in the blue glow of infomercials for thirty-dollar spaghetti drainers hours after
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