I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
October 13, 2007
I really can’t say how it happened.
But somehow, I found myself standing behind a table full of barbeque and potato salad last night, wearing disposable gloves and dishing up dinners for the parents on my stepdaughters’ soccer team.
I was only supposed to bring desserts, I grumbled to myself while keeping a sweet smile firmly plastered on my face. “Would you like turkey or pork?” I asked a dad, pausing to determine once again where my three-year-old had run off to, and whether my baby was still okay in his carseat behind me.
I mean, really, I thought. Can’t these people see I’m the only one here with small children to watch? Apparently, they couldn’t, because all the other parents milled about around the table munching on their sandwiches, while I dumped another glob of potato salad onto a paper plate.
“Hubs!” I called frantically. He was busy chatting up the team trainer across the way. “Hubs!” He looked up. “Can you please watch the kids?” Hubs nodded distractedly, then kept talking. Damn him! I ripped into another bag of whole wheat buns with renewed ferocity.
Serving dinner, apparently, is an art, one I clearly hadn’t mastered. I gave this person far too much barbeque and that person far too little. I mixed the potato salad in with the pasta. I skimped on the chips. For their part, most of the team parents, the same adults I sit with twice a week in the stands, were forgiving. But one or two of them seemed to forget that despite the sanitary gloves, I was still the same women who had gossiped with them about the new English teacher just a few days ago.
“Give me some of that turkey,” one mom said. “No, no,” she said shortly as I mistakenly reached for the pork. “I said turkey. And I’ll have some potato salad, too, but only a little. And extra pasta.” I tried to smile at her apologetically, but strangely, she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“Okay, Mimi, here you go,” I said, handing her the plate. She took it without comment and walked away. At first, I guessed that Mimi had had a bad day, but a few minutes later, another parent I know did the same thing, ordering from me as if I were a fast food waitress, refusing to look me in the eyes.
Awkward.
Talk about a face-value society. I couldn’t get those gloves off fast enough. Mostly because my husband had finally taken charge of Punky and was busy stuffing a second piece of cake down her throat, but still.
Being a lunch lady must be a lot harder than I had thought. No wonder I remember them as always being cranky.
This post originally appeared on Parents.com.
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