And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

 

this-way-to-the-speak-easy

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As I sit here, sipping on a drink that some with lesser livers would deem too-strong, surrounded by mountains of coupon clippings, and a ledger book detailing when and where to use them that would make even the slightest OCD individual develop an aneurysm, I have realized that I also need to send out yet another e-mail to the parents of my son’s first grade class. This little highlight to my evening comes with a tiny stab of pain. Somewhere in the realm of where my liver is, probably, now that we’re on the subject, or maybe it’s my stomach’s lament over the copious amounts of post-election chocolate I’ve been eating. We all know it’s not hunger pains. Trust.

Another e-mail that I am both happy to send out so that his teacher doesn’t have to, and dreading sending out because it has to adhere to a pre-approved format that makes my heart hurt. The kind of format that your e-mail server scans and sends directly to spam because it’s so robotic. I cheat, by the way. I add in little nuances. An exclamation point here, a smiley face there. The administration would have a coronary if they knew. Shh. But I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? They’ll take away my most revered status of “thing no one else wanted to do?” LUCKILY, I swindled a fellow parent (whom I actually like and enjoy their company) to take on this silly gig with. So, it’s sometimes kind of fun. Sometimes. Okay, not usually, but at least I have a friend.

Hello, my name is Molly and I’m a…Homeroom Parent.

“Hi, Molly.”

This is the sort of thing I have always aimed to avoid, you know. Social functions. Things that make me draw back and hiss. Unfortunately, some people take my snappy sarcasm as a social cue, and, obviously, there’s that other thing we all avoid talking about. The dimples. The shemustbereallyhappyandreallyreallynice dimples.

The thing is, even though I didn’t want to be homeroom parent, although co-homeroom parent isn’t quite as bad, I truly do care about my kid’s classroom. I want his little parties and events and all that crap that makes school so much less…school, to be fun and enjoyable. I want things to be a success. I want him to look back fondly on their holiday parties and gift exchanges and field trips and whatever else is going to be thrown my way. And as a parent, I really think that that’s got to be the number one priority of other parents, too. Right? They want their kid to have a good life and a good school environment, right? And they didn’t want to be homeroom parent or to volunteer for stuff, so you’d think they’d be cool with sending in supplies when they’re needed, or returning e-mails when questions are asked, or agreeing to be in the group text messages that I send out, or, you know, signing up for anything…anything at all.

No.

The answer is no.

I have sent out e-mails. I have downloaded a special little app on my phone to get in touch with parents easier so all they have to do is text. I have created a profile on a sign up website so people don’t even have to freaking talk to me. At all. Just sign up! Quick and easy!

No.

Some do. And when I say some, I mean that there are seventeen children in his class and, like, four people have signed up for things. Four. That’s 23% of the class for those who don’t have a calculator or math skills (you’re hilarious) handy. That is not a majority. That is not even close to half. That is less than a quarter of the entire class. I mean, come on, people. You didn’t want my job. You didn’t want it. You don’t want to be involved like I am having to be involved. I GET that. But, really. Could you at least try? I’m not even getting paid.

But, of course, I cannot say that. That is exactly why there are pre-approved letters we are required to follow. Because, I’m assuming, some poor homeroom parent probably snapped one day when, on Valentine’s day, only one freaking kid sent in a treat and it was a box of uncooked macaroni and cheese. Generic, even. Freaking Wacky Mac. And the homeroom parent probably typed an e-mail all in caps–you know, the really angry format, assuming that nobody would even read it since NOBODY ever returned their e-mails in the first place. And it probably said something like, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I’M DOING THE JOB YOU DIDN’T WANT TO DO. HELP ME SO I DO NOT SHAKE YOU! And some over-sensitive parent probably complained to the guidance counselor about how rude that homeroom parent is and how they don’t celebrate Valentine’s day because their dentist finds it offensive and last year their kid got a cavity from candy hearts and they never even thought those printed on sayings were all that cute in the first place.

I’m tired. My drink is mostly melted ice now, and that makes me sad.

Sign up for the freaking supplies. I know it sucks. Nobody likes it. But if you don’t sign up for something, myself and my co-homeroom parent are going to have to cook an entire thanksgiving dinner ourselves and foot the bill, too, and my liver just can’t handle that. It can’t. They don’t put coupons for whiskey in the Sunday paper. Maybe they’d do red wine, but I think only churches get deals on that. Ba-dum-dum.

Return a freaking e-mail!

Your child will have the word cirrhosis on their spelling list next week, so help me. Crap, I’m out of ice.

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