Observe and report

Dear Teachers:

I admire you and appreciate you every single day. It takes a certain day of the year, though, to really remind me that your selfless, barely-paid work keeps me and moms like me out of straightjackets.

That day is Field Day.*

As soon as I set up shop in the Sack Race/Tug of War tent, I remembered that I vowed last year that I would never volunteer again.

Field Day must be like childbirth where you forget the pain and screaming until you are back at it. That’s the only excuse I have for volunteering again. I just forgot that it was akin to Lower Hell, otherwise known as the City of Dis, where active sins are punished.

Field Day at my children’s school

I took the morning off from work, thinking, “How bad could it be?”

It was bad.

So bad.

I’m not sure when I lost my will to live. It could have been after I told Ashton No. 14 to stop picking his nose (or that might have been Connor No. 12 or Jaden No. 9).

It could have been after I plucked fragments of the Tug of War rope out of my bloodied hands after telling the sixth group of jackals children to “Stop pulling! This side has already won!”

It could have been after my youngest child earned the Academy Award for Best Actor in a Leading Role for his performance as Tug of War Pileup Casualty.

I know this for sure: As my undercarriage area started steaming, I thought, “Never again.”

My husband made the mistake of calling me in the middle of this. I verbally assaulted him. He may have already consulted an attorney.

The outer ring of the seventh circle of Hell (ie. violence against people and property) nearly welcomed me when I took a break to go inside to get water. A number of women were sitting in chairs in the air-conditioned snack room — their assigned volunteer spots — chatting about shopping. Their hair was still styled, clothes clean and dry, foreheads unsheened. I regarded them through rage-clouded eyes and restrained my fists of fury.

Back outside with a warm, begrudgingly offered bottle of water, I slogged through what seemed like 4,000 more sack races and rope battles. Time stood still.

Sack Race No. 2,147

After the last group of the morning had shoved and cried their way through the two “games,” it was time for lunch. My oldest child, who suddenly looked so much taller than he had that morning, asked me if I would eat lunch with him in his classroom. He took me by the hand and said, “I love you, Mama.”

And I remembered why I volunteered.

See you next year!
Beth

* A day that consists of trying to corral children into teams to compete in games that are supposed to be fun. These games devolve into pushing matches, crying jags, and squeals of “he’s cheating!” And that’s just the parents. (I’m kidding. It was just me.)