As I have said before, I am a PTA mom (and proud of it). I believe that when one thinks of a suburban mom/housewife, they think of a woman with peaces n cream skin and perfectly manicured hands. They drive spotless minivans, and often feed Koolaid in actual Koolaid pitchers to their overly attractive tweens and their numerous friends after an apparently successful soccer game. After which, she high fives them and they scamper to the yard.
She is the mom who, despite having cleaned all day until there is somehow an audible shine to her counters and floors, shakes her head laughingly as her enthusiastically muddy child comes in, followed by a large dog covered in what appears to be massive amounts of shit.
This woman is happily married to a handsome alpha male named Dan/Rob/Rick, who seldom makes appearances aside from fleetingly in the sidelines. This is the woman who will giggle and swat Dan/Rob/Rick on the hand after he says damn, for she is pure as the driven snow.
She hums as she grocery shops, and knows every recipe for one pot casseroles in existence.
You will find her exclaiming excitedly about new laundry detergent, and horrified about the hidden dangers of salmonella and soap scum.
But, ladies and gentlemen... rest assured, I will never have a Kate Gosselin haircut, look good in a cardigan sweater set or join a mommy and me aerobics class. My minivan has stuff under the seat that may or may not be small animals in hiding. I wear *gasp* sweats to the grocery store and pajamas to get my mail. I have even walked down the driveway in a shirt covered with leaking breastmilk, and felt just a spot of pride in that. I have brought my children to birthday parties at the wrong time, and once on the wrong day. I forget doctor's appointments, and show up to playdates half an hour early.
I have been known to call people a douche nozzle now and again, and my kids are not coordinated enough to chew gum and walk, let alone lead a team of rugrats to the soccer world series (is there even such a thing?) I am pretty sure that my kitchen has all sorts of diseases lurking around, salmonella being the least dangerous among them, some being threats not even yet documented by man.
I have a belly button ring (you would not believe how stretched one little hole could be after having five children- please do not be embarrassed by this double entendre), a tattoo (my son at age two wanted to know where the naked lady on the TV had her lion), and a skeleton or two dancing in the coat closet.
However, I cook like Julia Childs, love like Mother Theresa (without the whole generous saint thing working for me), and have a damn good sense of humor. I could take Stepford by storm, and kick June Cleaver's pearled and perfect heinie with both hands tied behind my back.
This is what I would like to write in our plea for people to join next year's PTA...to those people who occasionally like to do jello shots, or who have actually sunken low enough to watch the sex tape between Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. All those people who perhaps barely made it through high school themselves, or who cannot for the life of them figure out how to help their second grader do long division. Those same folks who balk at the idea of making brownies from scratch, or who (like the billboards proclaim) can name five supermodels but not their childrens' teachers' names.
For in fact... like the supermom on the Mr. Clean commercials, we all simply put our pants on one leg at a time. We all cry at weddings and funerals and laugh when our kids teeter to the floor after their first glorious steps, with looks of pure astonishment on their faces. Each of us saves up to get to Disney, and splurges on Happy Meals, and loses it when the kids come down for water for the fifth time past "lights out". Regardless of our economic backgrounds or our religious beliefs, we have ridiculously high hopes for these kids of ours. I go to those PTA meetings to be reminded that we are all in it together, it takes a village to raise a child, etc.. and believe it or not, those ladies in their cashmere sweater sets just may have sleeve tattoos under 'em.
She is the mom who, despite having cleaned all day until there is somehow an audible shine to her counters and floors, shakes her head laughingly as her enthusiastically muddy child comes in, followed by a large dog covered in what appears to be massive amounts of shit.
This woman is happily married to a handsome alpha male named Dan/Rob/Rick, who seldom makes appearances aside from fleetingly in the sidelines. This is the woman who will giggle and swat Dan/Rob/Rick on the hand after he says damn, for she is pure as the driven snow.
She hums as she grocery shops, and knows every recipe for one pot casseroles in existence.
You will find her exclaiming excitedly about new laundry detergent, and horrified about the hidden dangers of salmonella and soap scum.
But, ladies and gentlemen... rest assured, I will never have a Kate Gosselin haircut, look good in a cardigan sweater set or join a mommy and me aerobics class. My minivan has stuff under the seat that may or may not be small animals in hiding. I wear *gasp* sweats to the grocery store and pajamas to get my mail. I have even walked down the driveway in a shirt covered with leaking breastmilk, and felt just a spot of pride in that. I have brought my children to birthday parties at the wrong time, and once on the wrong day. I forget doctor's appointments, and show up to playdates half an hour early.
I have been known to call people a douche nozzle now and again, and my kids are not coordinated enough to chew gum and walk, let alone lead a team of rugrats to the soccer world series (is there even such a thing?) I am pretty sure that my kitchen has all sorts of diseases lurking around, salmonella being the least dangerous among them, some being threats not even yet documented by man.
I have a belly button ring (you would not believe how stretched one little hole could be after having five children- please do not be embarrassed by this double entendre), a tattoo (my son at age two wanted to know where the naked lady on the TV had her lion), and a skeleton or two dancing in the coat closet.
However, I cook like Julia Childs, love like Mother Theresa (without the whole generous saint thing working for me), and have a damn good sense of humor. I could take Stepford by storm, and kick June Cleaver's pearled and perfect heinie with both hands tied behind my back.
This is what I would like to write in our plea for people to join next year's PTA...to those people who occasionally like to do jello shots, or who have actually sunken low enough to watch the sex tape between Pamela Anderson and Tommy Lee. All those people who perhaps barely made it through high school themselves, or who cannot for the life of them figure out how to help their second grader do long division. Those same folks who balk at the idea of making brownies from scratch, or who (like the billboards proclaim) can name five supermodels but not their childrens' teachers' names.
For in fact... like the supermom on the Mr. Clean commercials, we all simply put our pants on one leg at a time. We all cry at weddings and funerals and laugh when our kids teeter to the floor after their first glorious steps, with looks of pure astonishment on their faces. Each of us saves up to get to Disney, and splurges on Happy Meals, and loses it when the kids come down for water for the fifth time past "lights out". Regardless of our economic backgrounds or our religious beliefs, we have ridiculously high hopes for these kids of ours. I go to those PTA meetings to be reminded that we are all in it together, it takes a village to raise a child, etc.. and believe it or not, those ladies in their cashmere sweater sets just may have sleeve tattoos under 'em.
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