Last night was my turn to bring the snack to my daughter’s softball game.
Bringing snack requires nothing more than placing a bag of munchies on the ground and then getting the hell out of the way lest your middle finger is mistaken for a Twinkie by fifteen sweaty and hungry eight year olds and you are left without the means necessary to flip the bird to all the raving lunatics in Wegmans’ parking lots, thereby sucking all the fun out of grocery shopping forever.
Did you know snack moms come in several varieties?
There’s Mom #1 who bakes soft, chewy chocolate chip cookies and wraps them in colored cellophane tied with curling ribbon and pairs them up with a color coordinated Vitamin Water for each child.
And to her, I say “Stepford called, they want Model #A12-742 back. But before you go, please sign here, here, and here and adopt me.”
Then there’s Mom #2 who brings granola lollipops rolled in wheat germ and cans of carrot juice.
And to her, I say “I shall not judge you until I have walked a day in your earth shoes,” followed immediately by retching into my daughter’s helmet.
There’s the Mom #3 who pays someone else to do it.
And to her, I say “I am not worthy” and bow ten times.
There’s the Mom #4 whose husband does it.
And to her, I say “What the heck did you use to remove the TV remote from your husband’s hands? I scrub and scrub and can never get mine clean.”
And finally, there’s Mom #5 who watched her kid’s softball game in 110% humidity for two hours one year, knowing that the only thing that stood between her and her central air was the almighty snack time and she was secretly hoping there’d be Ho-Hos and that no one would spot a prematurely grey, myopic, slightly roundish third grader with fuzzy legs wolfing one down, but then she noticed that the kids and parents were staring at her accusingly, so she checked to see if her sweaty bra cannibalized her shirt and ricocheted off her body to dangle from her ear but no, it didn’t and yet, there still appeared to be an angry, hostile mob surrounding her so she did a quick mental check to reassure herself that she hadn’t pole danced in public or slept with anyone else’s spouse in recent memory and then she looked behind her since maybe they were pissed off at her husband for some reason in which case she could then holler I KNOW! TELL ME ABOUT IT and rack up sympathy points but he was back at the car so she fumbled around in her pocket for her cell phone so that she could dial 911 and inform the operator that people were totally being mean to her for no reason and just then, she found the note that she wrote to herself that morning which said PICK UP NATE’S DINNER & BRING SNACK TO GAME! DON’T FORGET, YOU BIG LOSER.
I’d say something to her if I could but I have no idea who she is or why she cries a lot for no reason.
I’d have said something to her husband as well but he was too busy starving to death.
So I was on snack duty last night and before the game, I dragged Helena out to our vacation home at Wegmans where oddly enough I did not have the occasion to flip anyone the bird.
Helena picked out the following:
Fifteen sweaty, hungry little eight year olds left satisfied and I’m off the snack hook for one more year, which gives me about 365 days to coerce Model #A12-742 into signing those damn papers already.