My son’s room mom is organizing the class Thanksgiving feast for Wednesday, assigning food for each parent to bring.
I’ve been assigned turnips.
Yeah, TURNIPS.
I have been laid low in the worst way. Clearly our social stock has FALLEN if I have been handed the piece of paper with the message “Please bring enough turnips to serve 10 children.”
My only hope for ensuring my son’s upward social mobility in the elementary school hierarchy is to work my way up the Thanksgiving food chain to mashed potatoes, corn pudding, sweet potatoes or apple pie. But don’t you just know the women with those assignments are hanging on to them for dear life. Not one of them would trade assignments with a turnip bringer. Just ASKING would be humiliating. I may as well paint a big “L” on my forehead.
And so I’m resigned to my fate. My son and I will forever be remembered as the freaks that brought the turnips to the Thanksgiving lunch. There will be sly chuckles and raised eyebrows at PTA meetings. Backstabbers will ask me about my “fabulous turnip recipe.” None of my son’s friends will come over to our house, “Dude, your mom serves TURNIPS. Like, I only play with Pop Tart eaters!” And you just know when we enter the school restrooms, people will smirk and hold their noses---ewww, the turnip people are getting ready to cut loose!
We can only pray this debacle all blows over by 5th grade, which could happen--but only if I don’t get asked to bring a raw vegetable platter to the class Christmas party.
November 21, 2005