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Broke Wife, Big City
One fish, two fish, dumb confused fish
By Aprill Brandon
I am often out of my element. Just a perpetual fish out of water, even
when technically still in the water. So when my friend Melissa asked me
to help out at our kids’ school fundraiser, I couldn’t think of a place
where I’d fit in less.
For one, I am less a parent than I am just three bewildered 12-year-olds standing on each others’ shoulders in a trench coat.
Two, I am new to the school parent game. My oldest just started
kindergarten. I’m still shocked I managed to fill out the 167 pages of
paperwork it took to enroll him.
And three, school parents who have it together enough to help at a
school fundraiser are on a whole other level. A somewhat intimidating
level. A level that usually involves packing a snack for their kid that
isn’t leftover french fries.
So when she asked me, it was essentially like asking a fish to climb a
tree with a bicycle. Or worse, asking a fish to put on pants without
ketchup stains and to not curse for two hours straight. Absolutely not,
I immediately thought.
She then casually yet cruelly mentioned that there would be beer at the event.
So I said yes.
You know, come to think of it, maybe fish out of water is the wrong
terminology. Have you ever heard of imposter syndrome? Where a person
constantly feels like they’re faking it? It’s like I have that. Or like
I’m a confused fish with that. Five-and-half years in, and I’m still
faking being a parent. Every single time I drop off and pick up my kid,
I’m convinced I’ll be found out.
Any Other Parent: “Hello. How are you?”
Me: “Good. Great. Mostly because I have kids. I’m totally a parent. The
hospital just handed them over to me. I didn’t have to take a test or
anything.”
Any Other Parent: “OK then. Nice meeting you.”
*awkward edging away by all parties involved*
But there’s strength in numbers (and in craft beer alcohol content), so
I bravely put on my last unstained pair of pants and walked directly
behind and slightly crouched behind Melissa into that bake sale like a
boss.
Unfortunately that slinking courage lasted for all of two minutes before they put a money box in front of me.
“So, everything on the table is a dollar, except for the bracelets,
which are five dollars,” the beautiful school mom without undereye bags
and tangled hair affably told me.
“Awesome. Perfect. Could you repeat that?” I replied because I am
always too busy thinking about what an idiot I am to actually listen to
people.
“Absolutely. All the baked goods are a dollar. All the raffle tickets are a dollar. And the bracelets are five dollars.”
“Yup. Got it. Thank you.”
I then turned to Melissa.
“Did you catch any of that?”
Melissa, however, was busy being rudely competent by already tending to
our first customers and figuring out the mobile credit card swiper on
an iPad.
I was about to feel super sorry for myself and steal a brownie to
sad-eat in the bathroom when suddenly another impeccably put-together
mom appeared and started asking me about my kids. I made a few awkward
jokes at first (“my oldest is five and my back-up auxiliary kid is
three”) but she seemed genuinely interested. So I kept talking. And as
I kept talking, something magical happened. I relaxed. And as I
relaxed, I started asking her questions about her kids. Soon we were
having a full blown conversation about our kids. And then other people
joined in.
And BOOM. Suddenly I was humaning with the best of them.
As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about. Not because I abruptly
became a fully functioning adult. But because I was surrounded by them.
People who were good at making conversation. People who were warm and
approachable. People who were really good at ignoring the yawns of the
new school mom who suffers from insomnia and include her despite her
overall vibe of “they think I’m a people, just like them!”
But most importantly, people who love to talk about their kids as much
as I do. Because the one thing I never have to fake is how much I love
my kids.
And how much I want to murder them when they ask for spaghetti for
dinner and then throw a tantrum at dinner because they just remembered
that they hate spaghetti.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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