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Walking into a department store, I admonished the kids: “Now remember, we don’t need any more toys.”
“But what about Christmas?” Nora asked.
“Oh. Hmm. Well, I guess that’s different,” I responded. “Santa and the elves need their jobs.”
Dear Readers,
Although I am ultimately writing OINK Tales to preserve a record of life’s moments for my kids, I’ve been told that there is nothing more sad than an under-read blog. I am so grateful to those of you who have been oinking with me! I love to read your comments and really appreciate your words of encouragement. Being an instant gratification kind of girl, it’s been rewarding to me to know that you are listening. If any of my posts have made you chuckle, smile, or even briefly amused you, whether you are a semi-regular follower or a random reader, please: Push the Pig. It will feed my ego – I mean – warm my soul if you would send this link http://bit.ly/MalRl to your friends/family and invite them to check out OINK Tales.
Thanks and happy oinking!
Mary
As directed, I shake out the school’s neatly folded tablecloths and spread them over the formica tabletops. I place tea-cup sized ceramic plates in front of small wooden chairs. Alongside the plates, I arrange unmatched drinking glasses and cloth napkins made from scraps of floral fabric. I dot the tables with bowls of freshly sliced apples that Henry and I picked at a local orchard.
The tuneless notes of a cow bell starts the stampede. Sixteen children busily hang their coats, wash their hands and find their seats. I help distribute the individually portioned yogurt cups that I brought for group snack despite their bad-for-the-earth rap. (Call me lazy, but I didn’t want to wash sixteen more dishes. Besides, those containers are recyclable!)
The hard seat of the tiny wooden chair I am perched on is anesthetizing my rear-end. The room fills with a chorus of: “I don’t like this kind! I want what she’s having!” I swap yogurts between kids like a carney playing a cup game —Where’d the strawberry go? Is it this one? That one? Now you see it; now you don’t. Eventually, the kids settle down and start slurping.
A small voice announces: “These apples taste like poison.”
“Really?” I ask. “Have you been eating a lot of poison, lately?” Oops. I said that out-loud. I hurry to clarify, “Nobody should eat poison. Poison is very, very bad for you.”
The eight owners of the sixteen eyes at my table consider this statement. I raise my eyebrows and nod my head vigorously. “I promise you. I did not put any poison on these apples.”
Then, gathering my tattered rags around me, I cackle and put on my pointy hat.
I think Nora has been sneaking extra TV-time. C-SPAN, to be exact. Or maybe just a little MSNBC. It’s either that or Congressman Wilson astrally projected onto my five year-old last week.
“You lied to me! You lied!” Nora shouted, stomping her Mary Janes. Her eyes glittered with outrage.
“Honey, honey, no. I didn’t lie!” I was practically stammering in the face of her fury.
“You did so! You lied!”
Heads swiveled in the elementary school cafeteria. Other parents were turning to watch the drama—surreptitiously, of course. No parent wants to admit it, but it can be gratifying to see someone else struggling with their child in public. It’s like watching an episode of Supernanny—your problems seem small compared to those people’s.
And Nora was staging a good show. When she has a tantrum, she pulls out all the stops. I am thankful that they do not occur frequently because when they do, my embarrassment is a 10.0 on the mortification scale.
“You said I could ride the bus home!”
“Nora, I didn’t! I told you that I was picking you up today. You only needed to take the bus home on Wednesday. Come on.” I tried to sound soothing. “We’ll talk about it in the car.”
“NO!” She maintained the vowel until it collapsed into a wordless scream.
I could feel the sweat beading on my sternum. “You can’t ride the bus home today. You can ride the bus home tomorrow.”
“NO! You’re a liar!”
“Oh God, it’s Friday. You’ll ride the bus next week. Let’s go.” Grabbing Henry and M, my carpooling kid, I fervently hoped that Liam and Nora would follow me.
As I weaved through the masses towards the exit, we suddenly became invisible. No one wanted to make eye contact (me, least of all).
By the time we reached the car, Nora was winding down. She hiccuped. I fixed her with a glare. She sniffled, hugged me, and apologized for her “fit.”
I accepted her apology. Because unlike Congressman Wilson, I think she meant it.
Setting: It’s late summer and a school group is kicking off their school year with a two-night camping trip in a beautiful state park. Dozens of tents flap in the breeze. The surface of the lake shimmers in the sunlight.
Cast: 87 energetic children ages 9 – 14. A dozen or so adults (stalwart teachers and shell-shocked parents)
Scene 1 – Teenage Girl with black bangs so long she can barely see and purple fingernail polish stands in line for food. She wears yoga pants that are rolled down at the waist and a university sweatshirt. Teacher serving food wonders whether she got the sweatshirt from her brother or her college-age boyfriend.
Teenage Girl: What’s for breakfast? Is that oatmeal? Gross. Oatmeal is disgusting. (Flicks hair over shoulder)
Teacher: Have you tried it lately?
Teenage Girl: Yeah, like 2 months ago. (Rolls eyes)
Teacher: But did you try it with raisins and brown sugar?
Teenage Girl: Raisins? They’re even grosser.
Teacher: What?! Raisins are nature’s candy.
Teenage Girl: (Contemptuously) Like, whatever.
Scene 2 – Pre-teen Girl with dirty blond hair, a “princess” t-shirt, and a tough attitude sits on a swing. Parent chaperone approaches her.
Pre-teen: What do you mean I hafta listen to you? It’s 2:30 and my Dad said I don’t hafta listen to you teachers after school hours.
(Parent chaperone looks stunned and does not respond.)
Pre-teen: I’m bored! I wish I were home!
Parent Chaperone: (Recovering herself) What would you be doing at home?
Pre-teen: Lying around.
Parent Chaperone: Possibly being bored?
Pre-teen: Yeah.
Scene 3 – Three 9 year old boys are in their pajamas and sleeping bags inside a tent. The parent chaperone has just convinced them to turn off the light.
Boy 1: Please. There’s no Jonas Brothers on my i-pod.
Boy 2: Let’s tell scary ghost stories!
Boy 1 and Boy 3: Yeah!
Boy 2: Wait, do you believe in ghosts?
Boy 1: Yeah.
Boy 3: Uh-huh. So, there are these 3 boys…
Boy 1: What about vampires?
Boy 3: I’m trying to tell a story! Stop talking! So, there are these 3 boys…
Boy 2: Wait, wait. Does this story have a moral? I hate stories with morals.
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