Sitting in a garage doesn’t make you a car…

…so why did I think that sitting in a PTA meeting would make me ‘parent of the year’? When my oldest child entered kindergarten, I felt it was necessary to do all of the parental involvement activities…volunteering in the classroom on my lunch break, landscaping the school grounds on Saturday, baking cookies for the bazaar, and of course, joining the PTA.

I entered the library for the first meeting of the year, and immediately knew I did not belong. The room was full of women (so far, so good), but they all had big hair and themed sweaters and Coach purses and husbands and lots of fundraising ideas. I had tattoos and blue-black hair and a hug-a-tree t-shirt and no husband or interest in selling salsa or coupon books. By the looks on these women’s faces, they knew I didn’t belong either. Every month I would attend the meeting, and every month the other mothers and I would try (and fail) to hide our distaste for one another.

November came around, and it was time to vote, an activity that took place in the school gymnasium. The PTA had organized a blood drive to coincide with the polls. I had avoided signing up to donate, as I had recently gotten a new tattoo…a fact I had no intention of disclosing. My roommate and I entered the gym and were stopped by the vice president of the PTA. “I noticed that you haven’t signed up, but we could take your blood now. It’s really important, you know.” I told her that I did know, but that I would have to decline. She pressed me for a reason, and before I could stop her, my roommate blurted “She just got a new tattoo…she can’t give blood.” I’m not sure I’ve seen someone’s jaw hit the floor with such force before or since that moment…well, maybe since (keep reading). I walked towards the polling area as quickly as I could.

Because of the high voter turnout in our precinct, the lines were divided by last name. My roommate and I split up, each taking one of my children. This was an important election…it was a presidential election. Among the other issues on the ballot was a constitutional ammendment declaring marriage was for one man and one woman. As we waited in our separate lines, my roommate called out across the gym “If the ammendment is defeated, we’ll be able to stand in the line together next year!” I don’t need to tell you how this went over with the PTA set.

Years have passed, and my feelings about the members of our “honorable” association haven’t changed much. My involvement is minimal. I don’t attend all of the meetings…I don’t sell coupon books…I don’t do much. But earlier this year, an event did pique my interest. We had raised money for new playground equipment, but the installation of said equipment was cost-prohibitive. It was decided that parents would work together over a weekend to erect the new playground. I was pumped. I love fixing and building and any other activity that allows me to use power tools.

The big day came, and I arrived at the school early in the morning, power tools in hand. I walked in and was greeted by the other mothers at a table full of muffins and bagels and juice. I asked them where to report. “The men are all outside…we women are just going to keep an eye on the muffins.” Were the muffins going to run away? I’ve never seen a muffin make a break for it. “I’ll just head outside then,” I informed them. “They don’t need us out there…we’ll just get in the way. This is our job.” I smiled sweetly and moved towards the door in spite of the threat of a muffin mutiny.

I got right to work…assembling slides and monkey bars along with the fathers. Every 10 minutes, one of the mothers came to check up on me. They were busy keeping an eye on me…who was watching those pesky muffins? Several hours into the work, I was holding a post steady while one of the guys hung onto it to attach it to a bridge. I was braced to hold him steady, and was startled when I felt a tap on my shoulder. “We’re preparing to set out the lunches. Could you come help us put the sodas in the cooler?” I grimaced, and replied that I was a tad bit busy at the moment. “Well, sweetie, the sodas aren’t going to get themselves out of the box.”

I don’t know if I had offended their sense of femininity or if they were concerned I was there to steal their husbands, but I was furious that they wouldn’t just let me be. I finished my work that day, and vowed to myself that I would never again attend a PTA function. 5 months later I broke that vow.

The week before the new school year started, the PTA had an orientation/form completion night at the school. I was in a foul mood from the get-go. My children were at home with lice (a perk of daycare attendance), and I was anxious to get all of my forms turned in and go home to boil my house. The PTA, in all their wisdom, had set up different stations for each form – 8 in all. And there would be no skipping around…you had to get a card punched as you passed through the stations in consecutive order.

Station 1 was where I learned which teacher each of my children would have. I asked if they knew if my youngest would be in morning or afternoon kindergarten. They didn’t know…try the next station.

Station 2 was where I received the supply lists. I had already bought school supplies, and was not happy about wasting time in line for something I didn’t need. They clearly didn’t know if my child was in morning or afternoon kindergarten.

Station 3 was where I turned in the emergency contact forms. No dice on the kindergarten question.

Station 4 was where I was supposed to sign up for parent teacher conferences. There was a sign up sheet for morning kindergartners and one for afternoon kindergartners. This seemed promising. But did they know which one she was? “Oh…you’ll find that out at Station 6.” I should note that Station 4 is where I lost my cool and cussed out a hallway full of parents and yes…elementary age children. “How the f*** am I supposed to sign up for a conference here when I won’t find out which slot to sign up for until 2 stations from now? Whose f***ing idea was that?” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I realized what I’d done.

Stations 5, 6, 7, and 8 are the stations I skipped as I ran to my car.

Needless to say, shame has kept me from attending any PTA meetings this year. But not just shame…I realized that my children reap more benefit from a mother who is home with them the first Tuesday of every month than from one who spends the evening talking about fundraising and purses and husbands and comes home with an urge to shout the F-word.