OK, so it's not much, but it's early in the month.
Yesterday a fourth grade room mother looked at me and without a "Hello, Poppy" or any kind of preamble asked me "Are you coming?"
I thought she meant coming to the fourth grade Halloween party, but just then, someone interrupted her. When she was free, she asked me again: "Are you coming to the class cocktail party?"
Revelation dawned. Whoops, I forgot to r.s.v.p. "No," I started to answer. And she turned away and walked off.
The hell? OK, Emily Post would be displeased with me for letting the class cocktail party invitation get buried on my desk ... but this is something that one of the room parents takes on as part of the job of being room parent. This is not a real party. In fact, "Class Parents' Party" is an oxymoron.
And then it occurred to me. This woman has two children, one in each of my children's grades. The older one is about the dourest sixth grader I've ever seen. The younger is described by my same-aged child as "my best enemy."
In other words, my kids don't like her kids. And? Big surprise? I don't like her.
Now, for years I've been figuring that a kid with neurobehavioral issues probably sprang spontaneously from the loins of nice, normal parents. However, years of unconscious observation on my part suddenly yielded yesterday's big insight: Weird parents tend to have weird kids. And weird kids? Tend to have weird parents.
Just so you know, my kids are weird. I have the paperwork and IEPs and therapy bills to prove it.
Now you know what you can expect from me.