Here’s one more thing I don’t get about parenting: snacks.
Apparently, if children are gathered, there must be snacks. I had no idea about the snacks. The nurse didn’t mention this at the hospital when they handed Sean over.
We are in our second season of baseball and last year I learned the hard way about the snacks when one of the moms asked who was bringing the snacks.
“Snacks?” I blurted. “What do we need snacks for?”
And everyone looked at me like I was Joan Crawford weilding a coat hanger.
I just didn’t get it. It was an 8am game. I had just fed Sean breakfast. We would be home at 9:30. I thought I was a pretty good mom because I had remembered to bring him a bottle of water. Why the snacks? Why? I really do not need another thing at which to fail.
So that I would not have to endure the wrath and contempt of the baseball moms who intuitively understand about snacks, I signed up for snacks. And then I went home and wrote SNACKS! on sticky notes and put them all over the house so that I wouldn’t forget and get stoned by an angry mob of snack demanding moms and 4-year-olds.
We are in our second season of baseball and I am now in the know. I know about the snacks, oh yes I do. I found the snack coordinator and signed up right off the bat. (Oh how I crack myself up.)
Sean’s games are on Saturday morning, but due to Hurricane Ike a few Saturday’s ago, we had a makeup game on a Monday evening. And no one brought snacks (cue audience gasp).
The next Saturday, I was sitting in the stands behind some baseball moms and I overheard one of the moms telling the others in a hushed tone about the Monday night “snack mishap”.
The phrase “snack mishap” cracked me up. I laughed out loud — which if you were sitting two rows in front of me would appear to be for no apparent reason.
So then, now I’m the weird anti-snack mom who also laughs inappropriately.
I’m hoping Sean will take up golf. I hear there are no snacks in golf.