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So disappointing! I think to myself as I push back from my laptop and roll my neck from side to side. After so many years of putting my heart and soul into my class mom emails, I can’t help being a little judgy when it comes to other people’s offerings.

“I mean, come on!” I say out loud. “Would it kill you to put a little razzle-dazzle in your emails? A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants?”

I take a deep breath and click reply. For my eyes only, I promise myself.

To: Franny Watson

From: Jen Dixon

Re: Mat Mom Get-together

Date: September 13

Dear Franny,

Way to whip us all into a frenzy! I for one can’t wait to hit the Donut Hole! In anticipation of next week’s klatch, here are some thoughts …

Let’s start with the name. Do we really have to be called Mat Moms? Why not call us what we are? Doormats. Or maybe we could call ourselves the Matt LeBlondes and all wear wigs to the games. I mean, if we’re going to do this, let’s have some fun with it!As the mothers of tween boys, please consider how much money we could all make by starting our own towel and tube sock company.Do we all wish our boys chose another sport or is that just me?Let’s think about how we can put the “rest” back into wrestling, shall we?

I’m only here to help.

Jen Dixon

I smile. It’s kind of fun to take the snark out of storage and give it a spin. I should write fake responses that no one sees more often. I’d get in a lot less trouble.

I take a sip of my one and only cup of coffee for the day. Thanks to a recent diagnosis of acid reflux, I’ve had to reduce my favorite vice to a single shot in the morning. At the ripe old age of fifty-five the hits just keep on coming.

Just the other night I had shared with my husband, Ron, that I was feeling a little isolated and out of touch because I wasn’t involved in anything at the new school my son Max started last year. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed his sixth-grade year—what I like to call my year of liberation from the grind of OPOs (Other Parents’ Opinions)—and filled my time teaching more spin classes, doing an online sushi-making course, and generally enjoying the freedom of no obligations beyond my family and friends.

I only started feeling out of touch when Max kept referring to kids I didn’t know and wouldn’t be able to describe to police if it ever came to that.

“Can I go to Spike’s house?” he asked last week.

“Who’s Spike?”

“Mom, I’ve told you. That’s what we call Sam Spiner.”

I actually have heard Sam Spiner’s name a few times, but as I mentioned before, I couldn’t tell you what he looks like.

“Where does he live?” What I’m really asking is how far am I going to have to drive.

“I don’t know.” Max shrugged. And really, why would he? When I was a kid, I rode my bike everywhere, so I always knew where people lived. I don’t think Max would even know how to get to his own school because he just sits in the back of the car and looks at his phone. Teaching him to drive should be interesting.

After a short back and forth about my comfort level with Max’s visiting the house of a kid whose parents I don’t know, I convinced him it would be easier if Spike came to our place. Apparently, he’s lucky enough to have a mother who doesn’t care what her son does. At least that was Max’s takeaway from the whole thing. He was not happy because Spike has the newest Xbox, and they were going to play Fortnite. All we have is the original Wii, but I made it up to them by ordering pizza.

So, when I shared my feelings of being a bit out of the loop, Ron, being a man, decided then and there to “fix my problem” by making all kinds of suggestions about how I might be able to fill my time. These included going back into the PTA cesspool (I’d rather listen to “Baby Shark” on repeat for the rest of my life), volunteering in the cafeteria (raise your hand if you can see me as the lunch lady), or hosting a moms’ coffee klatch once a week (I’m still laughing at that one).

I told Ron I just wanted empathy, not a grocery list of suggestions, and the conversation ended with a hostile good night to each other.

So this morning’s email is the fruit of my attempt at getting involved. As a mat mom. For the school’s wrestling team. I couldn’t be more shocked if I were posing nude in Playboy.

Our son has never displayed any interest in joining a sports team no matter how many times Ron waved a ball or a stick in front of him. So you can imagine our surprise when he announced at dinner after his first day of seventh grade that he’d decided to wrestle.

I’ll admit, at first I laughed because when anyone mentions wrestling, I immediately think of Hulk Hogan and Randy “Macho Man” Savage, the two heroes of WWE wrestling from my youth. I was confident Max would outgrow this little whim and continue on his path to greatness as a computer genius, or mid-level accountant.

Of course, Ron was thrilled.

“That’s great, buddy!” he said, and I swear to God he had tears in his eyes.

“Why wrestling?” I couldn’t stop myself from making a Someone just farted face as I asked it.

“Coach D said the team could use a guy like me,” Max said with a big smile, then shoved an overflowing forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.


Copyright © 2022 by Laurie Gelman