We’ll Trace All Our Future Problems Back to this Brunch
Mimosas, the Gateway Drug
We went to Mother’s Day brunch at my grandmother’s retirement community.
There were six of us at a round table, but no one was sitting—everyone was flitting about.
When the waiter came over to ask if anyone wanted a mimosa, my grandmother said she’d take one, and I preemptively ordered mimosas for my husband, who was off at the waffle station with the boys, and my sister Hillary, who was on her way.
Then I left to hit the buffet.
It was sensational: giant cocktail shrimp, frittata, asparagus with béarnaise, pastries, tropical fruit.
By the time I got back to the table, K-Pants and Baby Woww were sipping orange juice in fancy glasses.
K-Pants said, “It’s spicy!” which is what he says for anything carbonated.
“It’s not spicy. It’s orange juice,” said Hill and my husband. And the kids drank some more.
At this point it all came together in my head and I and blurted out, “Those are mimosas!”
“They’re mimosas!?” Hill said.
“We’re giving the kids mimosas!?” my husband said loudly.
When you’re giving your toddler and preschooler alcohol at brunch at a retirement community, it’s best that everyone involved shouts.
By this point, the kids still had the mimosas, and most of the waitstaff and nearby brunch-folk were looking. The situation had to be dealt with.
The boys were disappointed that we took away their special drinks.
I was disappointed that they liked mimosas and wanted them back.
Plain orange juices with no Champagne were ordered in special glasses.
The question remains: Were the after-brunch meltdowns because it was past nap time, or because the alcohol went to their heads? We’ll never know.
(Strangely, all photos of this event have been deleted from my phone by the gremlins.)
Is Preschool Graduation Really a Thing?
The Body of an Email is an Important Information Vessel
Our preschool likes to send parent newsletters every few weeks via email attachment.
That is where they put the information about K-Pants’s graduation from his fours class.
I have a hard time accepting preschool graduation as a thing. I like to think of preschool as having an end of the year.
Graduation seems a little hyperbolic. I mean, you learn to write your name and interact in groups. Don’t get me wrong: These are critical skills, and frankly more than I was hoping for K-Pants. I would have been fine with him getting socialized to the point that it doesn’t seem like he’s being raised by neighborhood coyotes.
But I guess kids need to graduate from something every year.
I’m not good about opening email newsletters via attachment, because I feel like the body of an email is the place to put important information (most people who rely on communication in professional settings know this, right?).
So due to my disproportionate rage at email attachments as communication vessels, and my strong desire for a nap on the last day of class, I missed out on preschool graduation.
That nap was amazing, and I did not feel guilty at all until I arrived at preschool, having forgotten about the potential graduation, and one of the moms said, “Don’t worry, I think Ricki’s mom took a picture for you.”
Then I felt bad.
But more about the fact that preschool graduation was something I have to internalize and then consciously choose not to do, rather than the fact that I actually missed it. Hey, we got a photo. And you would never know it was from after the actual show, unless I told you.
Fear not, friends. I know what a terrible parenting philosophy I have. I’m also completely aware that K-Pants will have plenty more things to feel bad about, and plenty to work on with his therapist. But I still think I’m a great parent, and K-Pants said this morning that he wants to marry me. So we’re good. I think. Then he said he was going to marry my husband, and that I should marry Baby Woww.