So last night was the first Mommy Cult co-op parent meeting of the year. All the parents of kids new to the Seventh Circle of Strangeness and Land's End Tote Bags were there, nervously wondering if they'd be able to abide by the supposedly strict "kiss and go" policy on the first day. The returning parents chatted about potty training and summer trips and got shooshed by the director for talking while a new board member (get this) read the bylaws and handbook aloud to the whole room.
What?! We're not trusted to read through or happily ignore these documents in the privacy of our own living rooms?
And as if that wasn't opportunity enough to scribble all the theme-days and future parent meetings in my calendar (and file my nails and wonder who was winning America's Got Talent at that very moment), the director then explained a new incentive raffle we could all enjoy on a monthly basis. As in the past, everyone who arrives at the meetings on time is eligible for a raffle. I've personally taken home a sweet Toys for Tots pocket calendar, you can win a pass on one of your monthly Parent of the Day responsibilities. This year, though, some months (and get ready for the excitement here, grrrls), parents can be eligible for some drawings if they bring the nifty folder color-coded by classroom and filled with the bylaws, handbook, calendar and other goodies that is supplied to each family at the beginning of the co-op school year.
Why? Good question.
Apparently, this is an ideal place to store co-op info and for that reason, every mama needs to haul it to every meeting along with her calendar, checkbook and Diet Coke.
This is not a snazzy binder nor is it filled with information you really need to have on hand when announcements about when Teddy Bear Day will be held and what each kid should bring along with his sippy cup for Jesus' Birthday Celebration Party. It is a 50-cent folder full of paper that, yes, is helpful, but no, is not necessary to keep copies of in the glove box.
These shooshy, incentivized moments both amuse and irritate me. While I'm OK with my kid being treated like a kid at co-op, I'm just not so keen on being treated that way myself. And while this is a good, safe, nice place that I am very happy for Lil E to be (truly), there are those things that keep me shaking my head every first Wednesday of the month from August through June.
Bruce just laughs when I tell him the stories of taking votes on what color the snot should or shouldn't be in the sick policy. But we have this arrangement -- he works as Parent of the Day for our family every month so I can work. He reads books, changes diapers, plays trucks and wipes noses of kids with all colors of nastiness coming out of there "illegally at co-op" noses. I sit through hours of culty goodness. If we were to trade (somewhere in the 'burbs, Bruce just cringed while leading some boot camp class through squat thrusts), Bruce would actually get more lauded (More than the title of Baby Whisperer in the nursery room?, you ask...hard to believe but yes) with the little golf clap of encouragement that comes when any man is ever seated at the long line of tables, "It is SO GOOD to see dads in the room! Hooray, Dads!" (ladies, I know you feel my eye-rollish wonder at how in the hell the last sixty years of feminism has done so much and yet not seemed to penetrate these meetings...and don't get me started on how impossible it is to communicate our different last names to the Powers That Be).
I wouldn't mind working the room. In fact, the few days a year I schedule myself in, I do love to spend the day with Lil E and his buddies, pulling them apart from fighting over the pushy cars and holding a pile of them on my lap as they sing together during all-co-op music time.
For now, it is all fair and fine. But I wonder sometimes if it would be a relief to take ten toddlers to the potty at once every month and whether I'd actually miss all the meeting madness if I renegotiated the co-op contract.
Cross-posted at Sassafrass.
There were many, many conversations over many, many years when my grandmother -- sports fanatic, homemade noodle maker, quilter and card shark -- would comment on my life through my horoscope. When I was sad about a boy, she would nod in understanding and say something like, "Well, honey, your horoscope's been saying romance is on hold until the next full moon." If it was something at school, she'd say she was sure I'd do well since Aries had a solid 8 for hard work all week. She'd send me a crisp twenty if she noted everyone born in my sign was suffering from financial difficulties or call to see if I'd spoken with my brother since his sign kept mentioning being out of sorts.
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