This post will be a little different, because I want to talk about something that will surely earn some hate mail. If you’re a mom with school-aged kids, and if you’re sick of being bossed around by out-of-control social engineers, this one is for you.
According to school calendars, it’s spring. It’s hard to tell when you look out the window; the trees outside my window are still bare. Yet, while nature still sleeps under late winter’s spell, our calendars are in full bloom. Unlike nature’s spring, though, this burst of new life isn’t so magical.
In case you’re out of the “school mom” phase, I’ll set the stage for my forthcoming rant. Stick with me, because a deeper truth is at stake.
The Age of Entitlement...
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Once school families have returned from their glorious summer or winter breaks, they always face a frightful vibe switch. The machinery cranks up, sets their calendars in motion, and reminds them who is really in charge. The excessive rest that families enjoyed must be reigned in and repurposed for communal priorities.
A juggernaut of emails, announcements, and meetings is thus unleashed by an army of principals, teachers, PTA reps and team moms. And each year, everyone pretends to be surprised by this; “Fall is so busy!” Spring is always so crazy!” Nobody—not even the staff PhD—has any idea how to slow it; and despite frazzled minds and fractured spirits, nobody really wants to. It’s all part of the “fun” of spring.
Joining a middle school sports team? You can expect two emails, three signups, two team parents, and a parent meeting—and that’s all before the first baseball is thrown. The pressure increases for high school sports: you will do all the middle school stuff, but you must also work the concession stand. In either situation, you’ll need volunteers for the team party—and can you host?
As an aside, all these communications must occur on platforms other than email, which isn’t cool and “sexy” anymore. Using multiple layers of password-laden apps is preferred now. Part of the mothering day is spent checking a matrix of apps or digging through old messages to find out what time the bus returns to campus.
The unwritten rule here is simple: If you’re a parent whose child will participate in a school-sponsored sport, you must agree to clear your calendar and dedicate your life—with its flagging, perimenopausal energies—to the sports team. Your child is a Wildcat, or an Eagle, or a Knight—and now so are you. This is also true of travel sports, where parents must make the team their entire identity. Either way, such parents must spend late nights out, weekends away, wear team gear, and lose brain cells at group lunches and team dinners. One must never, never risk time alone.
But wait—there’s more. I’m now going to take aim at a sacred cow—and this will surely qualify me as borderline evil.
Long ago, someone decided that it was the job of school moms to run candy shacks for those who want to watch a two-hour football game. Fair enough—it’s a great way to raise money and keep bored siblings entertained. They served Skittles, Cokes, and hot dogs. Fast forward a few years, though, and now every sport is in on the game: soccer, track, lacrosse, you name it— they all require concession sales and, of course, a team of “volunteers”. The menu has expanded, too.
Why am I grousing about this beloved and uncontroversial tradition? Number one, the food is garbage, completely at odds with all the “healthy habits” we’re supposedly encouraging. Number two, most concession stands turn into lively roach motels once the last volunteer shuts out the light. These roaches boast sizes that would wilt the knees of the football coach; but go ahead, take your chances eating with those plastic spoons.
Most importantly, though, mothers are continually pressed to spend their guilty “free” hours running these stands. To enjoy a game guilt-free, you must first make the blood sacrifice of a signup; only then can you sit and enjoy watching your child play. Driving, buying uniforms, paying fees—none of that counts anymore. You have only been declared righteous by the team mom because your name is written down in the sacred book of Sign Up Genius.
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I can already imagine some irate responses. “Wow, this is so harsh! Think of all the fun her kids have likely enjoyed through other moms’ sacrifices—all the pizza slices, goody bags, matching tee shirts. Doesn’t she enjoy community? Doesn’t she like serving others? It takes a village!”
That’s okay. I don’t mind being a contrarian now and then, and here’s why: most moms are afraid to utter these obvious truths, so they continue to push themselves and their families to their limits. Someone must therefore speak for harried victims of the social gods and their endless entanglements. Those with minds full of team spirit and school parties have devoured every else’s free time—hours that might have been spent in productivity or quiet refreshment.
Granted, some moms enjoy these village gigs, and if so, they are free to donate their time to serve others this way. In fact, this is a natural and logical overflow of multi-tasking, people-loving talent. (Looking at you, team moms!). Don’t misunderstand me: I’m not here to restrict non-compulsory efforts. I love sports, too, and we need friendship. All moms should feel free to bless others through their varied gifs and passions. People excel in a diversity of strengths—including things like running concession stands.
Here’s the reality, though: Many “busy” volunteer moms are already drowning in multiple children, piles of housework, a part-time job, aging parents, and even church commitments. Their quiet times are scattered at best. Their minds are frazzled, their homes are disordered, their husbands are stressed, and their kids need attention. All of these things rank well ahead of “the village,” despite the popularity of such talk among moms.
