THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, January 14, 1996 TAG: 9601100050
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: HE SAID, SHE SAID
SOURCE: KERRY DOUGHERTY & DAVE ADDIS
LENGTH: Medium: 85 lines
KERRY SAYS:
I'm going to surprise you, Dave. I'm going to write about the Great Blizzard of '96 and I'm not going to complain about how, when the schools close, it's Mom who has to go out and report stories with two kids strapped into the back seat of her wheezing old truck while Daddy enjoys a normal white-collar workday.
And I'm not going to write about how it's Mom who strikes deals like this with the kids: If you'll just be quiet for an hour and let Mommy write her story, I'll put my soggy wet clothes back on and take you sledding.
All this while Daddy has a normal work day.
No way, that is not what I'm going to write. I'm just in too good a mood from the silver lining to all this weather-related mayhem.
You see, this was my week to be snack mother at my son's preschool.
Dave, I can cook a formal dinner for 12 well-dressed yuppies and remain cool as a cucumber. But nothing unnerves me like trying to come up with a healthy, delicious snack for 24 children.
You have to understand how these schools work. I mean, a mom who arrives with a tray full of carrot sticks can blow her kids' popularity forever. At class reunions for decades to come, they'll see my little angel coming and yell, ``Hey, there's the dweeb-o whose mom fed us radishes at snack time.''
I've watched mothers strut into that school with the wildest concoctions. One favorite is ``dirt and worms'' - little cups of chocolate pudding (homemade, of course) topped with crumbled chocolate cookies with one of those gummy-worms hanging out of the top.
You just know that lady's kid is going to be a preschool hero.
Well, two snow days last week meant two days that I didn't have to look at my son roll his eyes at my pitiful attempts at clever snacking. Orange slices, little boxes of raisins, mini bagels topped with cream cheese and a dollop of grape jelly.
The only problem was, in my anxiety to be the perfect snack mother I forgot to shop for staples as the snow was bearing down on us. We ran out of milk an hour into the storm and our bread supplies were dangerously low. By Monday there was nothing in the pantry but kindergarten snacks.
Steve called home late that afternoon. ``What's for dinner?'' he asked.
At that very moment I was trying to figure out how to turn two dozen Rice Krispie treats into dinner for four. Could I hide 'em under some chicken gravy? Could I mosh them into some sort of casserole with a little mushroom soup? What would Martha Stewart do?
I hedged. ``Well,'' I told him, ``I'm working on that now. It'll be a surprise.'' Smiling, I thought, ``And it's going to be the perfect reward for a dad who hid out at the office all day.''
DAVE SAYS:
Kerry, you are truly a mom for the nineties. Normally I'd try to work up some sort of sympathetic defense for Steve, but not on this one. Anybody who can juggle a blizzard, two ankle-biters, an editor on deadline and snack-mother duty shouldn't have to worry about the evening meal.
Nobody's gonna die if y'all dine on gummy worms once or twice a year.
Somehow I missed this whole snack-mother phenomenon. I think they leave dads out of it for fear that sooner or later the kiddies' mid-morning treat will be black coffee and cigarettes.
I didn't know any of this was going on until a year or two ago, when you were covering politics. I came in one day and you had your head down on the desk. Remember? I thought maybe you'd had another tough go-'round on the campaign trail.
``Hey, she-be, what's wrong?'' I asked. ``You OK?''
And then the woman who had no fear at all of either Chuck Robb or Ollie North looked up at me and whimpered, ``I can't stand the pressure of being snack mother.''
Seems you'd thought celery would be the perfect treat that day. The rebellion among your daughter's classmates had shattered your confidence.
You should have stuck to your guns, Kerry. If kids get a ``special treat'' every day of the week, it's no longer special or a treat. It's an expectation.
And then we have a whole generation of little weiners who grow up believing that somebody is going to come by every day and shower them with goodies.
As kids, they expect it from the snack mom. As adults, they expect it from Uncle Sam.
I know your youngest is only 5, Kerry, but that's not too soon for him to learn that some days you get cookies, and other days you just get the crumbs. by CNB