Dragged Through the Mud: How I Wasn’t Invited to a Third Grade Party
(Random side note: just choosing a title for the post before I start writing might prove to be an unexpected bit of fun along the way.)
You remember teacher gifts, right? I mean, if you don’t have kids in elementary school currently … you remember that kids (cough, cough, the moms, cough, cough) give teachers gifts at the end of the school year, right? Maybe Christmas as well? Of course, if you are the parent of a kid in elementary school right now, you know about teacher gifts because it’s likely on your lengthy ‘to do’ list right now, sandwiched between ‘steam dance costumes for the year-end show’ and ‘sign up for shift at field day.’
My kids went to a small elementary school, the only school in our town. Kids from preschool to 6th grade attend our, to be honest, pretty freaking quaint little school. Families who have known one another for generations intermingle with the newly-moved-to-town folks on the first day of school, Halloween, Michaelmas, the last day, etc. There is a mother and a daughter who both teach in the school, and there are a few teachers who went to school there themselves. There are several teachers who have taught there for decades, now seeing the children and even grandchildren of some of their former students. You get the picture.
One teacher looms large in this small pond of a school. The giant, granddaddy shark in the fish pond if you will. This teacher has a cute nickname, a derivative of his last name, that everyone loves to use as if they are “in the know” and part of the cool kid crowd. He sticks out first and foremost physically, as he easily is twice the height of his students and almost always the tallest human in any room he enters. His classroom is full of cute nooks and crannies, including an antique tub set-up as a reading spot. He has taught at the school for somewhere in the neighborhood of four decades. I’m guessing you can collect a few things and create a pretty cool classroom given that amount of time.
We initially moved to this town when my oldest was about to enter third grade, the grade this shining beacon teaches. I saw some of the cool parents (if not all of them) had their kids in this teacher’s class for third grade. (What I did not note until much, much later was that none of the teachers or administrators in the school had their kids in his class.) And oh, what fun they seemed to have! Clearly, their class parties were the best and most fun! So many parents squished into that extra-large classroom anytime there was something to celebrate!
We, like so many other new-to-town or otherwise uninformed families, got put into a different third grade classroom. I was a nervous mom who had moved my family for my needs, and I felt terrible about uprooting my oldest daughter. So, we went into the school a few days before the school year started to meet my daughter’s teacher. This woman could not look me in the eye and her voice quaked while speaking to me. All in all, my overwhelming memory of that first interaction was my gut telling me something was not right. But … I didn’t want to be THAT bitch mom (remember this when I get around to the story that started this blog) who demanded a different teacher. (I wouldn’t have known at that point to ask for the famous Mr. Paddy - not his real name or nickname, ha ha.) I figured how bad could it be? What does my gut know anyway?
Yeah, so, that was an interesting year with a shining example of “you get what you pay for” and this country … doesn’t pay teachers well enough.
Fast forward four years and it was now my youngest who was ready for third grade. At that point, we had a new principal who had not been part of the fiasco when my oldest was in third grade. I didn’t request a particular teacher, I just let my daughter’s second grade teacher know that if we got the same one my oldest had, I’d be homeschooling. I remember laughing and saying that might sound really appealing - giving you a year off from me - but it is what it is. We were not going to spend another year with an utterly incompetent teacher. Anyhoo … lo and behold, we were CHOSEN. One of the lucky ones. Omg omg omg WE GOT MR. PADDY!!!!
For both my girls, I was fortunate enough to be available and able to volunteer quite a bit. I was a “class mom” whenever one was needed. For my youngest’s second grade year, I remember one particular class party where I had arranged several games for the kids to play. I bustled around the room, handing out supplies and getting the kids organized and working, weaving in and out of the parents who had joined us. “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me,” as I moved from one grouping of desks to another. The moms and few dads who were there chatted, munched on the various snacks that had been provided for the party, and occasionally looked up when their particular seven year old called out “Mom, look!” After a quick smile, a “that’s so cute!”, or a “great job, honey!”, they’d go back to their snacks and conversations. Not one offered to help — I remember that very clearly. Ok, whatevs. I know I’ve been oblivious at some kids’ bday parties or poolside at someone’s house in my day. Not a big deal.
Well here we go! Third grade in THE CHOSEN CLASSROOM. The very best class! It has to be! This is so awesome. It feels like we are part of the cool kids! Third grade: the do over. Let’s goooooooooooo.
One of the moms — one who had a daughter in my daughter’s class the year before as well, and one who had happily let me take care of all the room mom stuff the year before — was in the class on the first day, chatting with Mr. Paddy. At some point, I must have said something about letting me know if he needed any help and it was then that I was told that mom was going to be room mom. Great! Awesome! In first grade and second grade, there was no rush of folks wanting to throw their hats into the ring to volunteer. Awesome, your cool mom self wants to be room mom this year when it’s the ‘fun’ teacher, the guy everyone in town knows; the guy whose name gets said practically in hushed tones. Cool, cool, cool. Looks like I get a year off from everything except signing up for whatever I want to bring to the parties. Done and done. Here’s to an awesome year for all! Cheers!
Mr. Paddy was and is well known in our town. He holds an elected position of some sort. I have no idea, I just know his towering physique and carefully coiffed and not-suspiciously-at-all still reddish brown head of hair loom around the school gym on election days. So, he’s elected … something. Everyone knows Mr. Paddy, seemingly whether or not they have had a kid go to school in our little town in the last four decades or not. Mr. Paddy’s wife is pretty well known, too, as she helps out with some of the big events in third grate. Their only son is equally well-known via his parents and his own longevity in our little town. Their son is grown and flown, long past college or living at home with his parents. Mrs. Paddy has a job, they own their home in town, and Mr. Paddy has a nice BMW he drives. (The only surprise here being that his license plate does not, in fact, read PADDY.)
Turns out the room mom, let’s call her Gertie, had been one of Mr. Paddy’s students when she was in third grade. Her parents are good friends with the Paddy family. They go way back. How fun that Gertie’s daughter is now in the same classroom with the amazing Mr. Paddy as her teacher! Is that Norman Rockwell poised in the corner, ready to paint this sickly sweet tableau???
So … amazing, right? Remember how I said none of the teachers or staff at the school had their kids in Mr. Paddy’s class? Yeah. That wasn’t by accident. Being in the SUPER AWESOME SUPER COOL CLASSROOM lets me see all that ‘fun’ up close and personal. Like the time Mr. Paddy rolled his eyes at the mother from a different cultural background and made snarky comments under his breath to his buddy Gertie and then chuckled with her. Or that time he made a really snide comment about one of the other kids in the class … to me. You start to see the cracks and then you do a bit of a ‘hey, so Mr. Paddy …’ to a staff member you know well. Yep. There’s definitely a reason the other teachers don’t have their own kids in this classroom. Hmmmm.
Ok, gotta make the best of it. Let’s get through the year. My kid is pretty easygoing and can roll with just about anything. It’s clear she is not one of the chosen one’s chosen kids - because oh yes, the superstar kids in this class are very, very apparent - but my kid doesn’t know. No big deal. Keep on chuggin’ along. (Repeat after me: must not become known as the bitch mom. Must not become the troublemaker mom. Keep your head down and your mouth shut.)
Christmas rolls around and Gertie sends out a group email about the holiday party, blah, blah, blah. I make the obligatory finger dash from the email to the virtual sign-up so I can make sure I get something ‘good’ and don’t get stuck with something I don’t want to have to do. (It’s that mental game: do I want to try and turn a watermelon and maybe six other fruits into some masterpiece of a Christmas-tree-fruit display to awe and amaze the other moms? Or am I feeling the slightly incognito easy way out of popcorn? Or did I get to the sign-up list absolutely first and I can wimp out completely and sign up for paper plates and napkins? Decisions, decisions. The Momdemic Decathlon.)
In the email is a request for money for a teacher gift. When I am room mom, I always send requests like this out with no amount attached - just ‘I’ll collect what I collect and go from there,’ but always being sure to let the parents know. ‘We collected xx amount and I was able to get a gift card to Target for that amount’ or whatever. I always feel bad for teachers with the pile of mugs, candles or lotions, etc, piled up on their desk at the holidays and end of the year. What are people thinking? How many mugs or candles can one human have? These people are paid next to nothing and statistics show they spend soooo much of their measly income simply on supplies for their classroom. (America. Seriously. Do better.) Anyhow, this request was for a specific amount and, to the best of my recollection, ended up being a gift card of more than $300. (Actually, I think she may have given it to Mr. Paddy in straight cash. I remember thinking it was a bit odd ….)
Annie’s first grade teacher had her second son while Annie had her as a teacher. Her husband was a farmer, and they lived in a small apartment over a garage one town over from our town. She was young and had only been teaching for a few years. She clearly was still collecting books and other items for her classroom. When I realized how large the sum was that ‘we’ were giving to Mr. Paddy, I remember thinking about Mrs. Mason from first grade. How must that feel to see a teacher who needed nothing for his classroom, etc, getting a pretty big chunk of cash … while her desk likely had candles and small plants and maybe, if she was lucky, a gift card for $50? I already can tell you that one part of my ADHD that will pop up in posts here all the time is my hyper awareness and sensitivity to justice and fairness. This money for Mr. Paddy just seemed so unfair to me. It bugged the crap out of me but I sure as shit wasn’t going to open my mouth and DARE TO QUESTION anything to do with the great Mr. Paddy and his super-popular, adoring minions. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
Cut to the end of the year. Well, not really the end of the year. It was at least two months before the end of the year, which was pretty unheard of, but there, in my inbox when the snow was barely melted, was an email about a gift for the great Mr. Paddy!!! In the email, Gertie talked about thanking Mr. Paddy and wouldn’t it be AMAZING if we got him an iPad? How cool would that be? If everyone put in $25, we could get him an iPad. So awesome.
I’m so confused at this point. Not only is it weeks and weeks until the end of the year but … a $500 iPad? What? I remember thinking that I must have missed the announcement and he actually was retiring at the end of this school year. So, I wrote Gertie. First email: is this for the end-of-year gift? She responds with one word: yes. I reply “Is he retiring?” and she replies, again, with one word: No.
I. Am. So. Confused. Why on earth would we be getting a teacher a $500 end-of-year gift?? (I mean, maybe if they had potty trained my kid or volunteered to take them for their dreaded shots visit, but barring that … and don’t get me wrong, I appreciate good teachers!) I was lucky to get a $75 gift card for teachers in the past … and truth be told, I often had added extra money to get to that point. Parents who contributed - as contributing was voluntary and the amount was up to their discretion - would send in $5 or $10 in most cases. (No matter what, the cards were signed from the entire class.) A few times, I was contacted by a parent and told they simply didn’t have the extra money. I feel bad they felt they needed to say anything as they truly didn’t. But our town absolutely has a wide range of income levels, and families with 4, 5, 10 kids. It adds up. I totally get it! Card is signed from the entire class. No question about it, never.
What do I know? Am I somehow known as the a-hole room mom who only gets teachers a paltry gift card? A measly amount? Is there a groan heard ’round our little school when a teacher discovers I - that miserly mom - am in charge of their year-end gifts? I mean, I have a couple other experiences where someone else actually took charge of room mom duties and collected money for a teacher gift. My brain tries to remember … but no, it usually was handled in the same way I handled it. I … think. But I call up my friend:
Me: “Hey, so I have a question ….” I tell her the story and end with “does this happen? Do classes sometimes get really large gifts for a teacher?!?”
Friend (also a paraprofessional at the school): “NO! Never! I remember one time when a larger collection was taken up, but it was for a teacher’s baby shower. But even then, it was voluntary and it was more that other teachers and staff also contributed, not just the parents.”
Okkkkkk, so I’m not crazy. This is weird. But, meanwhile, other parents are replying to Gertie’s email about the money.
“Oh my gosh, this is great! Do you have Venmo? I can send it tonight!”
“So awesome! Thank you for organizing this! I’ll send the money in with George Junior tomorrow!”
Etc, etc, etc. Not one parent questioned this huge gift. Not one. Ok, so now I really feel awkward and out-of-touch. It’s just me …?!?
I call a friend. She’s a smart, lovely mom but I honest-to-goodness have never had a conversation with her where she didn’t sound utterly exhausted. She goes and goes and goes for her three kids, and I have no idea how she does it. She’s pretty freaking amazing. And also, I thought, someone with serious common sense.
Her response? “Yeah, I just sent the money in. Whatever. Gertie is willing to do it so I’m happy it’s something I can check off my list.”
“I get it,” I say. But my brain is screaming THIS ISN’T FAIR TO ALL THE OTHER TEACHERS!
Right about now is when another email arrives from Gertie. Bad news. The near-retirement, dual income, no kids at home professional man with a newer BMW … already has an iPad. What? No! Shocking!
Soooo Gertie has another idea. Hooray! Mr. Paddy loves a specific pro baseball team. We can get him tickets to a game and a hotel for the night in the city where the game will be played for the same amount as the iPad. Hooray!
My ADHD self can’t let it go: soon to be a common theme in my stories here, if I’m not mistaken. I call the principal and start to tee up the story. She interrupts me immediately.
“This is ridiculous. I’ve already heard from two other parents who simply can’t afford this amount for a teacher gift. They feel bad and they are embarrassed. This is not happening and I will be speaking with Gertie.”
I remember at the end of our conversation the principal laughed and said something about it being utterly ridiculous again. The overall gist was it was not ok and it would not be happening.
Ahem. Well.
I kinda like to think I’m an adult. That I can communicate effectively when needed. I also didn’t want it to seem like things were done behind Gertie’s back. So, a few hours later, I picked up the phone to call Gertie to explain my concerns (but not, of course, to offer any semblance of anything except adoring adulation for the PERFECT MR. PADDY - perish the thought!). Welp, the principal had called Gertie already. And she was NOT happy.
“I just thought it would be a nice gesture!” she said to me in a huff.
Um yeah. A $500 gift for your family friend is a nice gesture. Yep. Definitely. I’d say so. Very nice. EXTREMELY nice.
I tried … reasoning. Logic. Even said something about it being a financial hardship for some. (If someone told me something I had done in any way — let alone as a room mom — had caused someone embarrassment about their financial situation? Ugh.I would feel terrible. Horrified. Conversation over, done. Whatever I had done would be rectified. Period, dot, the end, full stop.) I said I had called the principal because I wasn’t sure if it was just common for big gifts like this and I hadn’t realized it. I didn’t want it to seem like I meant to call the principal as a way to tattle on Gertie Etc etc.
Nope. Gertie was having none of it. She wanted to give Mr. Paddy a jaw-droppingly wonderful gift. And listen, I get it. At that point, she had 99% of the class on board, or so it seemed. More than that: enthusiastically on board. Money-sent-already-on-board. I was the sole, dissenting voice as far as she knew. The one who had run to the principal and ruined everyone’s fun. (SHEEEESSSHHHH, I didn’t mean to … but! But! But! It wasn’t FAIR!)
So after that call what did I hear? Nothing. Nada. Crickets.
It gets closer to the end of the year (for real). The third grade’s big field trip each year is a whale watching trip. As usual, I was signed up to chaperone. (Ok, ok, fine. I made my husband do it when our oldest was in third grade so it was more that it was my turn on this one.) The end of the year gets busy with all the things: recitals, graduations, our annual year-end pool parties for both girls’ classes … all the things. I was getting through one day at a time … but it had crossed my mind that I hadn’t seen an email about a year-end party in Mr. Paddy’s room, not to mention anything else about a year-end gift. Why it didn’t raise any red flags at the time, I do not know. I think the short answer is because I never suspected how crappy grown-ass adults could be?!?
It’s important to note that this class had taken EVERY opportunity for a fun-filled celebration throughout the year. That was part and parcel to the mystique of the great Mr. Paddy’s room when you weren’t lucky enough to be one of the chosen ones. There was a party for Pi Day, a party when the kids presented their US presidents project, Michaelmas, Halloween, Christmas …. You get the picture. So, yeah, it really, really should have stood out to me that I had heard not one, single thing from Gertie.
So we are at the whale watch with all the third graders and their respective teachers. At one point, after we had disembarked from the giant whale watching ship, I found myself near Mr. Paddy. I asked, curiously, if there were any plans yet for the year-end party. Mr. Paddy seemed suddenly distracted, suddenly looking over at some of the kids attentively. He said something about not knowing what the plans were and they’d probably just order pizza or something.
Again. WHY DIDN’T I REALIZE SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT??? I have no good answer to that, but I didn’t give it more than a second’s thought of “oh that’s weird.”
So we arrive at the last day of school. In elementary school, we would invite both of our girl’s classes over — everybody welcome! — after the short, last day. Folks are invited to swim, hang out, and relax. Since it’s usually a normal weekday, I usually have to get everything ready for the party without the help of my husband. I often would shuttle as many kids as my minivan could hold. Hired lifeguards so I didn’t have to worry about the pool needed to get their marching orders and set up by the pool. Lots of logistics. Running around like a crazy person.
We get back to the house and folks start arriving. Parents sometimes stay but often drop off their kids, say hello, and head out for a few more kid-free hours. In the midst of running back and forth to the pool from the house, getting food out, helping kids find a place to get changed into their suits, etc, one father of a kiddo in Mr. Paddy’s class approaches me outside my front door. Normal small talk ensues, but then the dad launches into something more.
“That was really so well done today! I thought it was so touching. When Mr. Paddy was reading what he wrote about the kids, I think a lot of us got choked up,” he says, smiling.
At this point, the mom I had asked about the teacher gift but who had said she was just glad to have it checked off her list walked up. My head goes on swivel between the two of them.
“What? What Mr. Paddy read?” I ask.
“Yes, today at the party. It was really something,” the dad replies, still grinning as he remembers the touching moment.
I sound like an idiot, repeating back the things the dad is saying, but it’s just not sinking into my brain.
“At the party?” I ask, obviously confused. I was told there was no party, I’m thinking.
I look at my friend. It’s obvious she knows. She looks chagrined. Or maybe more like a deer in the headlights. I’m sure she was thinking she chose a really bad time to drop off her kid.
My brain is scrambling. I mean, I ran a very busy dog rescue outside of being a mom. It was not uncommon for me to get over 200 emails in a day when I had an extra cute, extra fluffy litter of puppies looking for homes. All I could think in that moment was that I had screwed up. Still not even a tiny thought it my brain that I hadn’t screwed up but more gotten screwed. I think I must have missed an email. Oh my god. There was a touching, year-end party and I wasn’t there for my kid. Oh noooooooo. What did I do? What did I miss???
After the dad and the mom go on their way, I continue running around for the party, but I do take a minute to grab my phone and search in my emails. Nope, nothing. Not finding anything. I confess, it STILL wasn’t sinking in completely. But by that evening I knew. Not only had Gertie, with the enthusiastic support of the other parents, gone ahead with the $500 gift of professional baseball tickets and a hotel night but she also had left me off all emails regarding both the gift and the year-end celebration.
HOLY SHIT. Who does that? This is a grown adult that kept a parent out of an event in her eight year old child’s life. On purpose. I could not wrap my head around it. Honestly, I saw that all the other parents were SO HAPPY with the idea of this extravagant teacher gift - unlike any gift given to any other teacher. Clearly, I was the only one who cared enough to speak up, but I was in the minority in my opinion. I totally get that. Have the balls to pick up the phone and call me. (‘So listen, I know you didn’t think this was a good idea but, you know, everyone else is super excited about it and wants to do it. I just wanted to let you know that we are going to go ahead and get the tickets for Mr. Paddy. We will be presenting them to him at the year-end party and I just wanted you to know ahead of time so you wouldn’t be surprised.’ Easy. Reasonable. Adult. Mature. NOT HARD.)
That imagined phone call to me would have been one thing, of course, if it hadn’t been for the school principal with whom I had spoken, Tessa. Tessa had called Gertie and told her this gift should not happen and was not ok. Over the course of the weekend after the party — school actually ended on a Friday that year — I thought that the principal also knew about the gift and hadn’t told me. I didn’t have words for that, either. I was upset. Choked up anytime I thought about it. So, I took the weekend before I called the school.
I don’t recall how I started the conversation with Tessa. I do remember telling her that I had waited the weekend to call because I didn’t want to cry on the phone. But, I remember my voice cracking even as I said that. My intent was to bring up being left out of the information regarding the year-end party, since I assumed Tessa knew about the gift. I remember starting the story and then being met with Tessa’s utter confusion - confusion not unlike mine when the dad on Friday had started to talk about the party.
“Are you saying they went ahead with the baseball tickets?” Tessa asked, incredulously.
“Yes,” I replied hesitantly. “You didn’t know?” My brain was having a hard time switching gears and processing that Tessa hadn’t known.
“No. I did not know,” Tessa replied curtly. Angrily.
She was very angry. Probably too angry about the gift to get much more worked up about me not being invited to the accompanying celebration. I remember we talked about the need to set-up policies regarding teacher gifts as neither our district nor the school had anything. I mean, as Tessa pointed out, there never had been a need for one before. No class had ever gone so far outside the norm before!
So that is how I managed to get kicked off the invite list for my kid’s third grade end-of-year celebration.
But wait! Unlike so many of the stories I plan on writing about on this blog, there’s an epilogue. An update. Even a bit of KARMA, BABY!
In the first part, it’s not very satisfying and that’s because nothing happened. Not in the short term. No policies were developed, there was no public outcry, the local paper didn’t cover it. (I reiterate, it’s a small town. We’ve had some interesting front page news stories.)
For fourth grade, my daughter got the most amazing teacher. Probably the best teacher with whom we have dealt in all our years in public schools, honestly. We had been fortunate enough to have this teacher for our older daughter when she was in fourth grade, so we had a bit of history with her.
I ended up in the classroom at some point before the new school year started. Linda, the amaze-balls teacher, knew something had happened but not the specifics. She laughed about being called to the principal’s office and how, even after all her years of teaching, she was worried that she was in trouble. She relayed that Tessa had called her in and explained that under no circumstances was Gertie to be allowed to do anything related to room mom duties. She advised Linda that another mom from the class, a mom who also happened to work at the school, would be room mom. Tessa did not give Linda the details, but it was clear something had happened that involved Gertie and room mom duties. And that was about it — everyone merrily went about their business and, I only can assume, Mr. Paddy and Mrs. Paddy had an amazing time at the ballgame and (one would hope) sent lovely thank you notes to all the kind parents who participated in such a ‘nice gesture.’
Then, maybe a year later, someone in the know was kind enough to tell me another story. This story involves a certain mom of young kids who were old enough now for the mom to go back to work. Mom was a certified PE teacher. It just so happened that the PE teacher at our lovely little quaint school was an older woman, ready to retire. She knew the mom in question through her own attendance at the school as well as the mom’s kids who were all now in the school. (Guessing that, like Mr. Paddy, the PE teacher knew the mom’s parents pretty well, too, given their elevated ‘townie’ status.) I’ll never know what happened behind the scenes or prior to the PE teacher walking into Tessa’s office, but what I do know is that the PE teacher offered up said mom as the most perfect fit as her successor. What could be better? She attended the school herself, deep roots in the community, her own kids attend the school, well known in our little town. I’m told that becoming PE teacher at the school she, herself, had attended was a dream of this mom’s.
“That woman will not work one, single day in this building as long as I’m principal here.”
That’s how the story was told to me. And so, mom did go back to work … at a school 30 minutes away. I may have noticed her on subsequent Halloweens and last days of the school year. Knowing she had to take a day off work instead of just being present because she was lucky enough to work in the school her kids attended. Lucky. Nope. Not the right word. Karma. Karma is the word that comes to mind. And yes, I think I kept my side of the street clean … I didn’t even smirk in her direction when I saw her in the school.
Teachers deserve to be paid more. Valued more. Would love to see all teachers receive $500 gifts in gratitude. I have never heard of it happening since, but I wouldn’t bet against another room mom doing something similar for Mr. Paddy again. I really, really wouldn’t.