Do you regret electing me yet?
To: McKinley PTA
From: Mike Mitchell
Subject: RE: WHOOPSY!
I went to the wrong school for pickup yesterday. I waited for 20 minutes outside a school our kids have never even attended before I realized where I was. So, I think you’re pretty great.
To: Mike Mitchell
From: Amy Mitchell
Subject: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
Mike! You REPLIED ALL!
To: McKinley PTA
From: Jan McManus
Subject: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
I forgot my son’s name last night. I called him Jack (my husband), Boomer (our dog), Lindsay (his sister), and then . . . just ran out of options and stared at him, blankly.
To: McKinley PTA
From: Carl Thorpe
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
My kids ate their cereal with coffee creamer today because we ran out of milk.
To: McKinley PTA
From: Kent
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
I threatened to throw all the LEGOs in the recycling this morning.
To: McKinley PTA
From: Amy Mitchell
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: WHOOPSY!
Okay! Sounds like we’re all on the same page here. I am honored to be your deeply flawed leader. I am also relieved to know that we are a band of fools just doing our best, and I’m hoping we can all figure out this parenting thing together.
I want to start by saying, if you don’t have time to give to the PTA, THAT IS OKAY! This is a completely optional part of parenthood, and if the only thing you can handle right now is making sure your kid gets to school, well, okay. Because sometimes even that is hard (anyone else have a child that basically morphs into a sloth as soon as it’s time to get in the car?).
And if you want to spend all your time helping? GREAT! Get in where you fit in, give what you can, and don’t stress too much. Our kids are going to be fine whether or not we help them launch a rocket into space, and it’s okay if their pizza rolls aren’t organic.
If you have questions or comments, let me know. I’m only checking this email address on Thursdays, so I’ll get back to you then.
Xo,
Amy Mitchell
Gwendolyn James Style
Farewell, Friends!
Beautiful Readers:
Thank you for your many years of support here at Gwendolyn James Style. I’ve so loved walking the journey of motherhood alongside all of you. Alas, all good things must come to an end, and that includes my blogging career.
I’m going to be spending some time offline, reconnecting with my true essence and reassessing my priorities. If you’re looking for a new source of inspiration, follow my friend Oska over at her brand-new blog.
In Love and Light and Great Style,
Gwendolyn James
Part IV
Spring
47
Carla
I packed for a weekend away. You never know how long a baseball game is going to take, or where the weather will go in the Midwest. I bought one of those foldy chairs that the other moms are always sitting in, one with a little canopy above it in case it rains or if it’s too sunny. It has an oversize cup holder, too, so it’ll fit my giant gas station soda (or a forty if it turns into that kinda night).
I found a cooler in the back of the garage, and once I wiped all the spider eggs off it and gave it a rinse in the shower, it was good as . . . not new, but as good as anything you could find on the side of the road. I packed three red Gatorades, two Diet Mountain Dews, and some of those baby carrots that look like orange amputated fingers. You know, some healthy shit. I also got a few beef and cheddars because protein is a necessary part of any kid’s diet and if Jaxon sweats a lot, he might need some extra sodium.
IT TOOK FORTY-EIGHT MINUTES TO GET TO THE FIELD. I crawled through traffic, watching the clock tick closer and closer to game time. Who were all these fuckers in their cars at five PM and why were they driving the exact same direction as me? I had forgotten about this part. Baseball isn’t just a few hours watching a bunch of kids stand around a big field of dirt and grass grabbing at their nuts; it’s all that after a long-ass drive to some godforsaken suburb that has a law against open containers in public parks.
The minute Jaxon was old enough to ride the team bus, I shoved him on it and claimed that drive time as Carla Time. It was almost ten extra hours a week to do whatever the hell I felt like, and you know what I never felt like? Sitting through several hours of a sport where basically nothing happens.
Tonight is a surprise for Jaxon. My mom was always promising to show up to shit. Then I’d sit there like a dipshit looking through the crowd for her like she’d actually show. I’ve been under-promising and under-delivering to Jaxon his whole life, but now I’m trying to under-promise and over-deliver. This morning, I’d seen him off to school like I always do. Well, sort of like I always do. We didn’t go to the Arby’s drive-thru, and we weren’t running late. I’d gotten up early to wake him up, and we’d eaten breakfast together. I packed him a lunch—Kiki printed out a bunch of shit from the Internet about kale, so I jammed a bunch of it in a sandwich—and I dropped him off ten minutes before the bell rang. It’s weird, but weird is kinda normal for us now.
It’s been a weird couple of months. And not just for us. At drop-off, nearly every mom I see is still in her pajamas, drinking coffee from a regular mug, her greasy hair in a messy bun. But there aren’t as many moms as usual. There are tons of dads, bewildered and asking one another for directions to their kids’ classrooms, negotiating tantrums, wrestling little ones out of their car seats, and generally looking like they could puke at any minute. Now I can barely even pick Hot Jesse out of the crowd, because there are so many men wearing Elsa backpacks wandering the sidewalks. It’s been awesome.
THE OTHER BASEBALL MOMS ARE USUALLY HERE ABOUT forty minutes early, before the team even arrives. They use that time to manicure the field (I think that means cleaning up any cigarette butts left behind by the beer league softball teams), to set up the “hydration station” for the players (apparently water isn’t descriptive enough), and to set up their own little pad for helicopter parenting. Dads arrive somewhere between the first and third innings, to find their seats ready and waiting, with an array of snacks and beverages for them to choose from.
Weirdly, I’m the first mom to arrive, just ten minutes before game time. Am I even at the right place? I choose the perfect spot to watch the game: close enough to our team’s bench to look like I give a shit about team spirit and far enough away that the other parents can’t easily engage me in conversation. The team is winding down warm-ups (a lot of standing around, with small bits of running and catching in between) when I finish setting up my little Dunklerville. I’m just about to crack my first Diet Mountain Dew of the night when Jaxon comes barreling over, grinning like a golden retriever.
“You’re here?!” he screams, throwing his arms around me so hard I hear my back pop a little bit. “Are you staying the whole game?”
Uh, look around you, kid. I could stay the entire week if it comes to extra innings. “Yeah, of course I am,” I say, squeezing him back. “Duh, I fucking love you, ya dummy.”
He is still hugging me when the whistle blows.