Blacklisted from the PTA Read online

  “Get dressed,” my husband told the kids. “We didn’t come all this way to miss these games!” They wiggled into their gear in the back seat.

  My husband was not finding the humor, so I tried not to laugh. Tension in the car was high, but it shouldn’t have been. Who wants to watch four hockey games in one weekend anyway? So we were late to one game? It’s not a real problem, not like washing your favorite jeans with your best lip plumper in the pocket, or having to drive the Lexus when your Mercedes is in the shop.

  To be a hockey family is to be privileged. The rink fees, the gear, the camps—it’s not cheap. And to travel on top of it? We spend a fortune going to other cities with their hotel rooms and overpriced breakfast buffets only to watch our kids get pummeled by host teams who only organize tournaments to subsidize their huge winning trophies. And it’s always the home team that wins. So what if we missed a game? It could be worse.

  One of the other dads called to tell me we were up by two, as if, after getting lost three times and spending nearly an hour on the road, we cared about the score. We cared less even when we found out that the right rink was not only not in another state, but actually only five minutes from our hotel.

  “Love to be a fly on that windshield,” someone joked when we arrived “It’s like that movie, right? Vacation or something?” Exactly, except that in our car, unlike the movies, there are no punch lines—only clipped responses and deep cleansing breaths.

  “At least we got to see the Arch,” my husband said. “Twice.” On the ice, my son scrambled back from the box because he forgot his gloves. My daughter scored an assist in her first two-minute shift. I got to yell at a corrupt referee, “Does that whistle even work?” And that night our kids played harder at ‘wrestle hockey’ next to the pool at the hotel than they did on the ice. It was no surprise we didn’t win the championship. But we did come in second. And for that we got—

  “Just…” my husband said with a sigh, “…ribbons.” But it’s not about winning. We do it to create memories our children will carry into adulthood. Good memories, we hope. Maybe a happy childhood will cushion some of the pain of adulthood. I suspect though, that the memories they keep will have little to do with the thrill of a goal or the rush of a win, and more to do with those moments of screaming in the car. I just hope that in retrospect, like in the movies, they make them laugh. Because it could be worse. Our troubles could have nothing to do with botched directions and frustrated parental venting. I hope my children someday know that, and realize just how good they had it.

  I also hope they remember their dad’s screaming more vividly than they remember mine.

  Meet Me at the Hotel Room

  REMEMBER WHEN HOTEL ROOMS WERE SEXY? ALL VACATION AND rendezvous and sheets you didn’t have to clean? Me neither. But I do remember when a hotel room represented relaxation, time away from the responsibilities of regular life, family life. Hotels were all about freshly made beds, hours of freedom, drinks mixed with ice from down the hall. And again, the lack of laundry.

  Now I have children so most of my disposable income goes toward giving them all those advantages I never had. These experiences are supposed serve them later in life, or create wonderful memories—maybe even emotional security. Who knows? All I know right now is: travel sports.

  In between games, hotel rooms have become an agony of too much family togetherness. Where once there was vacation, now there is obligation. Where once there was soft lighting and exotic snacks, now there are wet towels and fights over burgers versus Mexican. Where once there were cute little bottles of conditioner I didn’t need, now there are my tweens’ ever expanding collections of grooming aids, which are fast outgrowing my own. The hotel bed seems small when shared with my daughter—the one who will be as tall as I am in one quick inch.

  Instead of a good movie on TV (possibly featuring a halfnaked Mark Wahlberg), we are forced to suffer through endless half-hours of Miley Cyrus and that guy with the mullet whose achy breaky heart we all wanted to crush—with a sledgehammer—back in 1992. And the beds, which are quickly unmade to rid them of the microbe-infested bedspreads, are covered with soggy pizza boxes. (Okay, maybe that part’s the same.)

  In a hotel room with my family, I hide in the bathroom reading a book, partly to be alone, and partly so that no one can stink up the 200 square feet that have become our communal living space.

  Did I mention the dog? Oh yes, we are that family. And because we don’t want to spend any more than necessary, we do not pay the hotel’s pet fee, but instead choose to smuggle the dog in and out of the room, begging him to “go” at our convenience.

  In close proximity to the ever present them, I grow increasingly irritated. I crave escape from my husband’s brilliant observations, such as “This place really fills up at night” and the kids’ constant need for food and distraction. When the bathroom fails to provide refuge, I turn to the ill-equipped fitness center where I am devastated to see that although there are only two lonely treadmills, the tiny room has been outfitted with three walls of floor to ceiling mirrors, allowing me to see all that is shielded in my own strategically mirrored home. I want to go there. Home. Now.

  Other parents have already crossed back into the world of peaceful hotel rooms. They have begun to reserve two rooms; one for themselves and one for the kids. I can’t do that. I’m cheap, remember? Besides, I’d miss my daughter kicking me in the face on that tiny, pizza-scented bed.

  Great Racing Dragons

  I RECENTLY CAME ACROSS A SECTION OF NEWSPAPER I’D BEEN saving. On the front page of Local Section, Wednesday, December 29th, 2004, is my son, riding his bike—in a purple dragon costume. His chin is tilted up, maybe because he’s trying to see the road through the white, felt dragon teeth that cover his face. Big lavender dragon eyes perch atop his head. Horns stick out and black “smoke” comes out of the creature’s nostrils. I see the gap where a 6-year-old tooth used to be, and the dragon snout is like the bill of a cap on my little boy’s head.

  Why is my kid on a bike in a dragon suit? And how did this moment happen to be captured in newsprint? Blame his parents. My husband and I have no shame. Also, we were bored.

  During one of the long, cold days of winter break, while we were minding our own business looking out the window, we saw a newspaper photographer taking pictures of some neighbor boys racing down the hill on their new motorized scooters. We didn’t like those boys. They’re the same ones who shoot bottle rockets at us every Fourth of July. Plus, our son is way cuter.

  Those other kids didn’t deserve to be in the paper, but ours did. Problem was he didn’t get a fancy new toy for Christmas— mostly because of the mortgage payment. While he happily built Lego Bionicles and made up their pretend lives, we pondered our dilemma: How to get our son in the paper?

  Letting him drive the car around the block was out of the question, of course. But think, think… Halloween! Now there’s a holiday. Despite my frugal tendencies, that year I had caved to heart wrenching pleas in the seasonal aisle. Thanks to our friendly Walmart costume buyer and lots of child labor Somewhere Else, my children had worn fabulous and warm Lion-King-worthy costumes. (The Broadway version, not that thing your kids put on in the school cafeteria.) We summoned our son from his non-attentiongetting fun.

  “Do you still have that Dragon costume?”

  “Why?”

  “Put it on and go ride your bike.” Snicker, snicker. His face registered confusion, but we feed him so he has to do what we say.

  Five minutes later my boy was riding up and down the street, dragon head bobbing up and down in shameless selfpromotion. The reporter soon abandoned the older boys and took shot after shot of our pride and joy as we convulsed with laughter from our vantage point. Seriously, I almost peed.

  It’s not like he didn’t enjoy wearing the dragon costume. He and his sister had played with those things a dozen times since Halloween. The fact that he’d never thought to leave the house in it just proves how much he’s got t
o learn. And we, as his parents, are charged with the duty to teach, are we not?

  The reporter was giggling when she knocked on the door to get his name. The newspaper titled the picture “Dragon Racer.” But that’s not important. What is: those other boys didn’t end up in the paper—and mine did.

  Best Mom Ever: Ski Instructor

  WE’VE ALL SEEN THAT PSYCHO MOM BARKING ORDERS AT HER KIDS like a drill sergeant after one too many lattes. You want to pass her a Valium and rescue the kids from a lifetime of therapy. You know her?

  She’s me. As soon as my husband uttered the words, “ski vacation,” I was all over it. Within minutes I had visited the resort’s website and whipped out a spreadsheet complete with activities, restaurants, and a budget. I printed Mapquest directions and loaded up on Nintendo DS games for the drive. I rocked the planning phase. Still, as our departure date approached, I hadn’t yet made ski school reservations.

  “Did you call?” my husband asked for the hundredth time on the twelve-hour drive to the mountain.

  “It’ll be fine.” Did he appreciate all I’d done? Why did he have to harp on those damn ski school reservations?

  At the resort, I lost myself in awe of the perfect symmetry of a single snowflake on my gloves, finding comfort in that sixspoked creation. The snowflake doesn’t disappoint; it’s always picture-book-perfect, just like our ski vacation.

  Imagine my surprise the next morning, after hiking up sixteen flights of stairs in Gortex and boots to find that ski school was full. Oops. We promptly signed the kids up for the next day and decided to salvage the day by skiing with them. On the walk to the rental shop I chastised myself for wrecking the day while my husband pretended not to be irked. We suffered through long lines, our children’s professional grade whining, and too-tight boots before heading to our doom on the slopes.

  After twenty minutes of “I can’t!” and, “It doesn’t work,” along with some hateful silence, I’d had enough. I couldn’t take another namby-pamby minute. Suddenly single-minded in purpose, I declared that we were leaving the bunny slope. Twenty minutes later I was screaming down the first run. Dig in!

  Pay attention!

  Toes together!

  Get up! Get UP! GET UP!!!

  Sure, I looked insane and I scared a few kids who weren’t mine. Whatever. It’s not like I don’t know better. I know how I should have been acting. I should have been sensitive to my children’s feelings, protected their precious sense of accomplishment, and coddled their fragile self-esteem.

  That’s just not me. Maybe I felt a little bad being so tough on my kids. Maybe there were a few tears inside their goggles, and yes, other parents judged me. What can I say? I’m no snowflake. If I’d let all that stuff deter me, my kids would have missed a whole day of skiing.

  Instead, within an hour my shouts had changed from maniacal to:

  Good!

  You got it! Now you’re skiing!

  SHRED!!!

  Any residue of guilt fell away that night when I tucked my kids into the soft hotel sheets.

  “Mom,” my daughter said, wrapping warm fingers around my neck. “You’re the Best Mom Ever.”

  “No,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Uh-huh,” my son added.

  “You think?”

  They nodded.

  “Best Mom Ever!” we all screamed.

  A few days later I watched another couple try to smooth talk their son off the ground.

  “See all the other kids?” Mama cooed. “You can do it!”

  “Come on, Conner,” Daddy pleaded. “Pleeeeze,” they both practically cried.

  The kid just sat there, holding all the power.

  If the soft approach works for you, go for it, but know that you can’t fake sensitive. Kids smell artifice like a dog senses fear. Better to be yourself, even though you’re not perfect. Quit trying to be a snowflake. It’s SO much better to be the Best Mom Ever!

  Until Further Notice

  “DON'T YOU THINK WE SHOULD TURN BACK?” I ASKED MY HUSBAND when the snow surrounded us completely.“No.”

  “What if that happens again?”

  “I’ll slow down,” he said. Excellent. We’d plummet slowly to our deaths.

  Just over the pass, ten-foot amber lights announced: Highway 87 Closed Until Further Notice.

  Looking around at the cars ahead of and behind us, I knew we needed a room, and quick. “Get the one with the pool,” I said, pointing to the Comfort Inn.

  The next day I watched horizontal snow while one after another all roads heading out of New Mexico were systematically closed.

  “They’ve set up a shelter at the high school gymnasium,” my husband said. We’d been among the last lucky travelers to get a hotel room, and thus avoid the National Guard cots and Red Cross soup.

  Instead, we had fast food and a debit card. In a crisis, it’s important to have a plan. That day ours was to stuff ourselves on lunch at McDonald’s so we wouldn’t have to brave the icy evening. We ordered several super-sized meals, inhaled them, and bought more.

  “Here, finish this off,” my husband said, shoving a mostly eaten cheeseburger at me. I grunted. Then I ate it. You can’t be too careful. Besides, the nutritional value of food eaten under duress doesn’t count. No calories, no carbs, no fat grams. Remember that next time you are snowbound in the vicinity of a Big Mac. Or two.

  The food situation scared me. Although I had hoarded my share of oatmeal packets and cherry Danishes from the hotel’s continental breakfast, I couldn’t help thinking with all those people stuck in one place we could run out of food. “We need emergency supplies,” I announced.

  Into the SUV we piled, off to the grocery store for peanut butter and jelly, bread, and Oreos. I also grabbed a tabloid because that’s another vice that doesn’t count in a blizzard. My rule.

  That night I surfed the web, read, and checked email while the kids bickered in the background. My husband watched man TV. Just like home. Except at home I had laundry and cooking. This extended vacation offered maids and Nintendo DS to babysit the kids. Until further notice.

  I became an expert at tracking expected snowfall and wind speed, at finding highways on maps. I knew the wind that whipped off the mesa on Highway 87 caused fifteen-foot snowdrifts, which had claimed one of the two snowplows in the area. I knew Vegas, Raton Pass, and Springer like a local. (It only took a couple of days to realized it wasn’t that Vegas.) Still, by the third day in Shangri-La, my husband and I began to question what would happen in the event of a true emergency. Would we hear that alarming BEEEEP from the radio and TV directing us where to go and what to do? Because this felt like rather a good time for some direction. No one seemed to be in charge.

  The next morning we woke to open roads and hit them. Flat, snow-covered land never looked so good. Sunshine and ice-covered grasses turned the sparse landscape into a diamond-encrusted dream. But just short of the promised land of Texas, the road closed again.

  “It’s ten miles to the state line,” I said. “Go for it!” When my husband gunned it around the roadblock that held us hostage, ten cars followed. Just over the Texas line, the snow began to grow around us and I felt my gut tighten. We saw the backside of another roadblock. Thankfully, the officer on duty looked the other way while we drove past it through a space just wide enough for one car.

  Ahead lay bare pavement and the Texas plains. I wanted to hang out the window and lift my top in victory. I settled instead for a whoop-whoop fist pump out the passenger side window. Then I put all future travel plans on hold—until further notice.

  Anti-Resolutions

  SELF-IMPROVEMENT IS OVERRATED. THIS YEAR INSTEAD OF vowing to be better and then letting myself down two weeks later, I’m taking a different approach. I’m making anti-resolutions. That way if I succeed I’m successful, and if I fail I’m successful too.

  I resolve to gain weight. This should be a fun one. Who wants to be skinny anyway? Just think of all the new shopping I’ll get to
do when I can no longer zip my jeans—to say nothing of the joy of Brie and chocolate. And once I gain all that weight, I’m going to start a foundation similar to Locks of Love, except instead of donating hair to cancer patients, we’ll get lipo-sucked and donate the results to runway models.

  I resolve to stop working out. It might be difficult to find the time to not exercise, but a little determination goes a long way. Marathons of the Real Housewives on Bravo will help. And hello—double bonus, no workout clothes means less laundry! Who needs extra energy and long life?

  I resolve to start smoking. So many people smoke, I’m starting to wonder what I’m missing. Seriously, if it’s so hard to quit it must be pretty good, right? However, I’ve heard smoking helps keep the weight off so this could make my resolution to gain weight more difficult. I’m willing to take the chance. Besides, considering the state of my retirement account, a shorter life expectancy makes sense.

  I resolve to increase my alcohol intake. Next year at my annual physical I’d like to move my answer from the 3-5 drinks per week to the 5-8 category. It’s a realistic goal. Combined with the weight gain, lack of exercise, and smoking, this resolution has the potential to make a real impression on my overall health—and my physician.

  I resolve to mess up the garage. I’ve been trying to organize our garage for five years. (By organize I mean I’ve been trying to get my husband to pick up his stuff and get rid of the junk he calls “tools”.) At this point I’m ready to give it up to the family of squirrels that have taken to eating the dog food the children drop on the floor.

  I resolve to spend less quality time with the family. Do you ever get the feeling your family takes you for granted? I do, and I think a little extended absence from Mama is what they need to make their hearts grow fonder. I’m thinking of a solo tour of Europe.