All Out May-Hem

(Edited version for 2019 written by an even more tired and hardened room mom).

Hey y’all…it’s me…End-of-Year Room Mom. The real one this time. I’m no longer the side kick. Funny how that seems to happen. (Someone somewhere is yelling ha-ha suckaaaaa!)

If you’re familiar with the original version of this post, you’ll notice I have relinquished my (assistant) Team Mom title (ha-ha suckaaaaa!) Nancy Reagan would be so proud of me for just saying no.

I’m sure we all remember the lady who wrote about the End-of-Year Mom compared to the Beginning-of-Year Mom. Being End-of-Year mom is enough of a shit show. Well add End-of-Year Room Mom to that and you’ve got a full blown Barnum and Bailey situation.

So here I (barely) stand on May 14th with the number of shits I give rapidly approaching zero. At this juncture, I’m really hoarding my shits-to-give for important matters like keeping my children fed and alive. But now I’ve got all these school and extra curricular responsibilities and I am feeling super verklempt. If I have your phone number, you probably already know this as evidenced by my late night text tirades.

I mean we made it through the third quarter, got our precious angels through standardized testing, survived the science fair (don’t EVEN get me started on the science fair, but in case you’re curious, the kitchen sink is dirtier than the toilet), had a very late spring break, got a taste of summer and now I’m officially over this school year. O-VER. It’s official: we are all done-zo.

And y’all…just a side note: the original version of this was written in 2015 when my big girl was finishing third grade. Well, FYI, seventh grade is laughing it’s ASS off at third grade right now.

So here we are again: instead of going out like a lamb, we’re going out like a rabid lion on some bad crack because someone decided it’s a good idea to pack the biggest punch for the last few weeks of school WHEN EVERYONE’S SHIT BUCKETS ARE DANGEROUSLY DEPLETED.

When we get to the month of May, I simply don’t have the extra shits-to-give for field day, team banquet (including fundraising, silent auction and table themes), end of year parties, field trips, class retreats, school concerts, overnight volleyball tournaments, teacher appreciation week, dance recitals, middle school dances and more.

You know, the school year is kind of like a pregnancy. The first quarter of school is kinda like the first trimester of pregnancy when you’re all aglow and over the moon and dying to show off your bump. But then eight months and two weeks in you are ready to carve the baby out of your own abdomen with a pair of tweezers to end the misery because you are SO TOTALLY OVER IT. Well, that, my friends, is May.

So I would like to file a motion with the powers-that-be. I move that we do a better job of spreading out some of our festivities. I would have so much more enthusiasm for these events in the earlier stages of the year. Imagine our freshness and willingness to hit that Sign-Up genius like Conor McGregor if we weren’t bombarded with so many things at once. Shoot, we might not even be in a life or death battle for beating everyone to swipe the paper goods first but might actually be willing to wash and cut up strawberries. (I may or may not have a reputation for being the Sign Up Genius swiper. Early bird gets the worm, not sorry).

For example…

I mean, Lord knows I LOVE the teachers. Like love, love. But couldn’t we choose to show them our love when we’re still in the honeymoon phase? Say, early to mid November? Better yet, just get it out of the way the first week of school before we hate homework and they’re sick of our kids? (Don’t kid yourselves…they are definitely sick of our kids).

Perhaps we START the volleyball season with a kick off party instead of a ending it on a school night in May when just getting homework done and basic hygiene taken care of is tantamount to water boarding?

Maybe let’s have field day and outdoor field trips in February when people aren’t sick of being asked for favors like bringing wheelie coolers to school and setting up sun canopies. Added bonus: it’s not Hades hot outside and all the chaperones wouldn’t have uncontrollable under-boob and butt crack sweat. Come on, it’s FLORIDA.

Now, let me stop you before you get out your miniature violins. I have to say that I really do love being a mom and I feel privileged to be able to be a part of all the school/sports things. I am grateful for that. Truly.

But at this point in the school year, similar to my kids’ school shoes, I am frazzled and haggard beyond recognition. We are all just trying to hold on until the last day of school at which point we can fall apart. Shoes, lunch boxes, backpacks, homework folders and Mom–we’re all tattered and worn just trying to hang on by a thread for those last couple weeks in May.

So June 5, I’m coming for you. Fifteen school days and then, in the words of the incomparable Flo Rida, it’s GDFR.

**Stay tuned for my summer post in which I cry tears of madness because my children are going at it Hunger Games style with all the extra time on our hands.

Muffins

I see all you moms today with your lack of crows feet and your naturally colored roots posing in your cute photo frames with your paper mache flowers hashtagging the crap out of #muffinswithmom.

Guess what. When your baby is 9 years old, no muffins for you (Soup Nazi voice).

You know what that’s called? Age discrimination. Sorry, I believe the politically correct term is “ageism”.

Why don’t we get muffins? Who decided we are too old for the muffins?

I would argue that we, the moms of middle aged kids, need the damn muffins more. Sure, our metabolisms are a little slower and we’re a little softer in the middle. And we have no figs left to give about swim lessons, potty training, microwave mac and cheese and dino nuggets.

But we are in constant mourning over our babies turning into big kids. Facebook memories are stabbing us in the hearts every morning over our coffee and Fiber One. All the more reason to feed us the damn muffins.

We may not be mama or mommy anymore, but we are still moms. And we still like the photo frames and paper mache flowers. And we would give our left arms for just one more of those precious yet somewhat humiliating “All About My Mom” surveys.

There’s so much we don’t have anymore. We don’t have small, chubby hands to hold in parking lots. We don’t have fresh Mustela baby heads to sniff. We don’t have thumbsuckers or lovies. We don’t have anyone to read stories to in the rocking chair. We don’t have toothless faces smiling at us. Gone. It’s all gone in the blink of an eye.

SO DON’T TAKE THE DAMN MUFFINS FROM OUR DRY, WRINKLED HANDS TOO.

Throw us a bone up here in the middle ages. Or a muffin. Whatever.

Actually. Screw that. We want the donuts. Why did the dads get donuts? We were the ones with the stitches (uptown or downtown). We earned the donuts. We DESERVE the donuts.

Sorry, not sorry dads.