T’is the season for school parties and pageants. Or as I like to call them, Court Ordered Anger Management Practice Scenarios.

I have things to do, folks. Why must I be forced to change out of my flannel pajayjays and mingle with these people?

For all my complaining, I actually couldn’t wait to see Bucket Head in his little Indian costume at the Preschool Thanksgiving Feast singing the very un-PC songs he’d been practicing for weeks.

I got there early and found my assigned seat at a table full of very busily texting parents.


Oh look! Here he comes!

Me: “Hey Bucket Head! Pssssst. Over here! Right here honey! SMILE FOR MOMMY!

Him: “Shhhhhhhhhh”

What a good boy, shushing his loud Mama like that. Check out the ‘fro spilling forth from his headband! He kinda looks like a young Greg Brady when he went through that beaded-curtain-hanging-in-the-groovy-attic-doorway phase, doesn’t he? (Back off, Florence Skankerson. He’s only four.)

I snapped a few more (blurry) pics while the children were silently guided past me toward the “stage” (a bare patch of floor in front of the buffet table). And by the time I turned around to face the kids, it was too late. All the other parents had pounced onto ALL the good spots for photographing their ridiculously adorable offspring.

Oh. My. GOD.

Really? This is my view?

Oh HAYLE no. This is my last baby y’all. I’mma just have to move.

So I bobbed to the left:

Crap. Can’t see my kid.

Let me try the other side…


All I can see is his lone little feather framed by a sea of Stay-at-Home-Ass. This will not do.

Maybe if I just stand up on a chair…

Dammit! He’s in the back row, totally obscured by feathers. Where is the justice?

I still can’t get a clear shot of my kid.

I could feel my temper starting to rise.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. “Do not cause a scene,” I repeated in my head.

Fearing the worst, I began to pray.

“Dear Heavenly Father, have mercy. Please…help me to not lose my shit and embarrass myself or my child!

Oh, and God? If you could find it in your heart to part the crowd like you did for Moses with that whole Red Sea thing and let me get ONE good shot of my kid…I’d really appreciate it. Tell you what, one good shot and I’ll cut back on the cussing. Please God. Help a sister out. Amen.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I now present: the power of prayer…


I guess I should have been more specific, God.

Oh well. Pick a winner, honey.

Two more weeks ’till the Christmas party. I’m going to bring a ladder, a telephoto lens, some pepper spray, and a flask. Wanna come?