So, Ben’s “end of the school year” torture fest was last week–an event in which he flatly refused to participate. He hates those things. All the people and change in routine send him into a meltdown frenzy. He did sing with a few of the songs–sitting next to us of course–but refused to join his compadres on stage.
But this isn’t what i am writing about. Sure the kids were cute in their costumes, singing their little songs, dancing their little dance. I mean, you’d have to be a douchbag to not find them adorable.
But since my son wasn’t participating, it gave me an opportunity to make some other observations. I knew walking in that this event would give me blog material in some form. As a large percentage of the parents in this class are of latin american descent, I thought i would write about how these things always turn into some sort of regional tamale cook-off (there’s always three different kinds–including one from the teacher herself, that you’d BETTER try lest she beat your child when you’re not looking) have i mentioned (and yes, i know i’m going to hell for this) that i don’t even LIKE tamales? So yeah, i was prepared to take pics of the different dishes and have some sort of snarky food network challenge spoof.
Except noone made tamales this time. WHA?
So what’s a girl to write about?
I’ll tell you what she’s gonna write about. Shoes. I began to notice that with all the different kind of moms there, there were subsequently different kinds of shoes that defined those moms.
These were my shoes that day:
I feel these moms. We speak the same language. This shoe says, “look, i’ve got shit to do and no time to be tying shoelaces. And my feet hurt.”
There was the put together yuppie/hipster mom sporting these nice sandles with a nice skirt and a nice top. I have to say she seemed a little “uncomfortable” with all the non-english speakers around her. She must be new to LA. Or the Valley. Or Life.
And then there was the photographer mom with the very expensive digital SLR who was chronicling the whole event. Really–she was taking pictures for the teacher. Her kid is adorable, and one of the ladies in my sons corral, so i can’t hate much here. Except that she does the “walking on her pants” situation with the heels of these boots that make me wanna smack her to ruining those jeans that barely cover her butt in the first place.
What is this? Club Play-doh? You gonna wait at the bar for the barkeep to get you a caprisun? Hey honeys, check out my sweet new ride–THREE wheels with spinning rims.
Don’t mind me. I’m just jealous, because i don’t even think i could squeeze my gargantuan flat feet into anything remotely resembling these. And if they can wear these, make tamales and still chase their kids? well, they win.