Category Archives: Public School

Dear Mother Nature,

As March commences, we are hit with another 2 hour delay tomorrow.Oh, hell no, (the Bostonians are shouting a string of much more creative expletives…) you didn’t! But of course you did!  The Philadelphia suburbs and apparently all of Washington D.C. would like to graciously thank you for today’s ice storm, which put the lingering 3 inches of dirty grey snow on our yards in ice lock down.  On March 1st. Super.  Can we cry Uncle??


I guess today begins the unofficial miserable ending to the coldest winter in the northeast in 36 years. Thanks, by the way, not sure how super helpful record breaking cold is, but it sure kept all of our kids housebound for the last 2 months.  Begins the ending, you say? Yes, if we are to look at your track record we can only deduce that this is the dawn of an approximate month-long Springtease. (By the way, you’ve had the Floridians in a frenzy. You gave it to them good- making them endure days in the 40’s.  I hope you were checking your social media to see how upset they were.  Next year, they’d like some snow.  Just for fun.) This has been a doozy. Clearly, the pharmacuetical lobbyists have gotten to you (too!).  Was this the year of record numbers of northeasterners crushing up any seratonin producing pharmaceutical in sight???

At this point, the weather channel has run out of edgy, masculine storm names. They’ve been reduced to envoking ancient battle states. We are onto Sparta, which probably has dads invoking Gerard Butler’s Leonidas shouting to the children, “Spartans, ready your snowshovels!”

Here’s the deal.  Rita’s Water Ice opened today.  We’d like to start enjoying the real stuff without having the option of chipping it off of our gutters.  This is tremendously torturous … throw us a bone!

Love ‘N Stuff,

The Entire East Coast

And the Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round…

It has begun…you hear it, I know you do.

You feel it, as do I.

That strange buzzing sound that dances around your ears and causes you to cock your head to the left.  Or maybe the right. (Go left. Always go left when given a directional choice.  The line will be shorter, the path will be less travelled.)  There is a noise and a sensation in your belly …perhaps akin to what the Sioux Indians felt when the tatonka crested the buttes?  You are giddy.

Something is coming. Something BIG is coming.

No. It’s not The Rapture. Not just yet.

The School Bus! Oh, can I get a hell yes?  School is about to be back in session?  I am foaming at the mouth as I look at their packed-to-the-brim backpacks.  I am reaching, I am reaching, I can almost touch it.  SCHOOL!  Order! Structure!  Nutrionionally sound lunches (and honey wheat pretzels) blessed by the federal government!


(We started decorating for September 3 weeks ago…)

Even if you have just perused this blog, it is safe to say you have determined that my parenting is shoddy at best.  Yes, yes. I am an atrocious mother.  (P.S. I already know this, but feel free to further bring it to my attention.  I can’t wait to read my hate comments).  What kind of mother looks forward to shuffling their babies off to school?  Why am I not devastated that they will be out of my clutches for and entire 5 hours an 45 minutes each day?  Why am I not savoring the last languid days of summer?  Why am I not posting my laments of the melancholy coursing through my veins at the idea of sending my children back to the trenches on social media?

I LOVE the school year.  My children LOVE the school year.  EVERYONE behaves better when school is in session.  School calms all people in THIS house.  We are structure people, we slather ourselves in construct and activity.   We shower ourselves in task.  If we wake up with nothing on the calendar, we break out into hives. Relax is not in our DNA.

So, it will come to no surprise to you that at 8:56 am tomorrow when the bus picks my boys up for school, I will be the woman driving around my quaint-northern-predicted-to-repeat-the-frozen-tundra-winter-of-last-year-town BEEP BEEP BEEPING the horn.

Go forth, my sons, and learn!  Embrace academia and potty jokes on the playground.  I love you to pieces, to the moon and back, I’d give my life for you in a heartbeat, I love spending time with you, but …..

To all my teacher friends, you know I’d endorse tax payer funds to purchase margarita machines for the teachers lounges if  I could!  Godspeed!


Dear Fellow Elementary School Parents Who Attended This Evening’s “Spirit Night”,

YOU’RE WELCOME!  Yes, you have my family to thank for the unanticipated but surely welcomed closing of the “playroom” area tonight of the restaurant where our elementary school’s “Spirit Night” took place.

I should have known this was going to be a precarious evening. It had all of the trimmings of a typical day of disaster in my life.  Which occurs 5 out of the 7 days of the week.

1.  The Husband is in another state.  (Of note:  Sometimes, even if he is not with us, but the children know he is within a 5 mile radius, they will sense his chi and behave just knowing he could spontaneously show up.)

2.  I’d been running around since the 8:55 AM busstop shoo-off, my car was full of sand from the park, The Nosy Meap never took a nap, and I hadn’t eaten since 12:15 PM.  Translation: I was in a fairly pissy mood.

3.  Due to my overscheduling, The Eldest had choir practice simultaneously with The Middle’s lacrosse practice, which I happened to be “coaching” (translation:  preventing 6 year old boys from beating each other with lacrosse sticks), which pushed us way passed our bedtime and had us arriving at the “Spirit Night” restaurant at….wait for it…7:15 PM.  (This is usually when showertime occurs in our home.)



After I spent $26.57 for fastfood (the boys have outappetized kid’s meals), and watched my children shovel bites of fried chicken parts down their gullets, before sprinting into the overflowing “playroom” to act like Tanzanian chimpanzees on a hostile takeover of a rival troupe, I decide to go chit-chat on the other side of the restaurant with my friends.  (Of note:  The Nosy Meap had no business being in the “playroom”, you know the one designed for 3 year olds, therefore, I had her in a half-nelson on my hip trying to constrain her from breaking free and joining in on the mayhem.)

During my trivial banter discussing the fact that aforementioned child continued to refuse to use the potty,which is one of my biggest parental failures of note, my ears started to twitch. I heard a low grumble, as my motherly intuition picked up the pitch a voice that shares my DNA.  And shout-down-the-lane began as The Town Crier (The Eldest) declares to the entire restaurant, “MY BROTHER JUST THREW UP ON THE PLAYGROUND”.  Thinking The Middle has projectile vomited and was withering on the crusty floor of the “playroom” in despair, I tossed my daughter to my friend, Natalie, and sprinted across the restaurant, only to find my son wrestling with a fellow wild boy friend with not a care in the world.  “Did you throw up?” asked Concerned Mother.  “Huh?  I burped and the chicken I didn’t swallow in my mouth came out”, said Middle Child as he continued to play, laugh and be crazy.  Hmph.

Yet, I hear this voice booming and echoing throughout the restaurant, “MY BROTHER THREW UP! MY BROTHER THREW UP!”  Ah, family loyalty at it’s best.  Literally, My Sweet, Sensitive Eldest Boy was telling everyone in the restaurant that his brother threw up as if it gave him instant street cred.  For real.  Children started to swarm around him as if he was Savonarola decrying Florentinian artwork.  I wanted to thwap him on the head.

As you can imagine, this evening continued into its spiraling plunge.  The Middle’s extraordinarily curious Kindergarten friends started to hear that he threw up and next thing  you know, Management has shut down the playground and children are seeking him out to confirm such a …newsworthy event.  I am accosted by kids, parents, Management!  Translation: time to go, little family. Time.To.Go.

Therefore, I think it’s time to thank me that you had to endure just an abbreviated evening of headaches.  Most of you looked excited when the “Playroom Closed For Cleaning” sign popped up. You had your excuse to flee and be  in the comfort of your own homes…

Love ‘N Stuff,

The Concerned Mother Enjoying an Tasty Glass of Van Duzzer


Temporary Suspension of Posts

Hear ye, Hear ye!

No, it’s nothing THAT exciting.

Rather, as I find myself cowering in the corner of my office, buried underneath bid sheets, raffle item labels and extra large cellophane wrapped baskets brimming with cool stuff I want to steal (just kidding, seriously, don’t start that rumor),  this serves as official notice that I must temporarily suspend my postings.  For at least 4 days.


My childrens’ elementary school silent auction looms overhead like another impending snow storm, and ding dong over here is the co-chair.

See you Monday.



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The Elementary School Car Line

As to clarify that I am not a complete ogre, but obviously this post does not pertain to those children who, 1.)  have any type of special need that requires adult assistance, or  2.)  have a cello in tow.

I am a person of superhuman patience, truly I am.  But one of these days, I am going to implode and my guess would be it’s going to be at 8:52 AM while I am in the midst of an active car drop off at my childrens’ elementary school.  Before I begin my rant, let me explain why I drive my children to school in the morning, because you are going to ask why I don’t just let them ride the big yellow school bus.  Yes, they ride the bus home in the afternoon, but they are literally the last stop in the morning after 9 AM.  This doesn’t work for any of us for a plethora of reasons.

1.  The Eldest begins his day at 6 AM.   By 8:30 AM, IT IS TIME TO GET OUT OF THE HOUSE.  Additionally, The Eldest is Type A and likes to have his morning work completed.  If he takes the bus, he arrives right as the bell rings and has a mild anxiety attack as he was not able to have all his pencils sharpened and lined up.

2.  By 8:30 AM…IT IS TIME TO MOVE OUT OF THE HOUSE AND BEGIN THE DAY.  (Really, it’s time to get out of the house.)

3.  The Nosy Meap has preschool at 9 AM twice a week, if I don’t drop the boys off at school earlier, she misses the first critical 20 minutes of Toddler Pre-K.  I just can’t sacrifice her education like that.

Back to The Car Line.  To you non-breeder readers out there, The Car Line is a drop off/pick up line of ankle biter carriers (you call them cars) waiting to…drop off or pick up said little ones while idling in a lane at an elementary school.

There are a lot of unspoken rules (and rules in writing, but who abides by those?) about The Car Line, such as…


*  Be efficient, drop off your little one, drive away

*  Don’t stop your car when  you see a pal, pull up parallel to his/her car to chat, therefore blocking the entire line

*  Slowly put your phone down and stop texting in an actively moving car line

*  Don’t try to have conversations with school personel manning the door by screaming out of your car window

*  Don’t feel as if you have to be directly in front of the school doors to drop your child(ren) off…if you are 3 cars back, it is ok to let them exit your vehicle and walk to the front door…you can actually see them walking through your windshield…you can observe them entering the building…even 6 cars back…trust me…

and, drumroll . . .For the love of all that is good and pure in this world…


Again, I might sound completely archaic, but the last bullet point should be done at home.  Kiss them good bye in the mudroom. Talk all about the positive opportunities the school day will bring on the car ride over while Kidzbop is blaring the Katy Perry cover of “Roar” during your Tony Robbins’ moment.  Have them sit on the side of the car closest to the curb (my boys will be Olympic hurdlers one day, you should see them clear their sister and her bulky carseat with precision).

Deep breathes, folks.  It can be done.  Just watch them hop, skip and jump all the way into school without having to hold their hand…

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