Friday, October 22, 2010


Today is my sons' school's UN day. This means that the parents go in with the kids and the kids dress in something that represents their heritage, and the parents/ kids (since the classroom age range is 2 years 9 months to 6, it's pretty much the parents) deliver a short paragraph about where they're from, visual aids are a bonus.

This is my oldest son's 3rd year in this class, and my UN day attempts have gone like this:

Year One: Panic! Search through memory archives and actual, physical items. Unearth tea towel I bought in Guernsey, tiny island in the English Channel which produced my great grandparents and the genes that make me very short (I bought so many pants while I was there, y'all. 28 inch inseam represent!) and bring it in.

Year Two: Become jaded. Put child in Red Sox shirt and declare that he's from Red Sox Nation. Ha.

Year Three: Today! As usual, make no plans and wing it. I vaguely remember purchasing a rugby (or whatever) shirt that said, "Ireland" (my husband's family is legitimately of Irish origin, with actual people that they still talk to living in Ireland) on it last year, but it was too big and got put "away" (which in this house means it could be anywhere) and I'll probably spend most of this morning looking for it while the kids maim each other and most likely someone gets an injury and we end up skipping school anyway since we're hanging with our peeps at Lowell General ER, again. Alas.

But, really, the big thing is this: The UN dinner. OH, THE DINNER. I will say this about the school: When they put on a food event, people BRING IT. It's like that Kirsten Dunst movie, but starring Nigella or something, and the competition is who can make the best Indian food. I have elastic-waisted pants for specifically this event. They are not flattering, perhaps, but they are useful.

However: In predictable me fashion, I completely forgot that I had to bring anything and now it's the morning of the event and I'm at a loss. Most importantly, I really don't have much in the way of actual heritage. I'm pretty much straight-up American. If you want to get into the nitty-gritty, my kids are half-Connecticut (me!) and half-Vermont (husband!), but living in Massachusetts. Probably the most accurate representation of my background (according to my selective memory-generator) would be old school mac and cheese made with Velveeta, and it's even saying something about Spam cooked in orange juice, but that can't be right, so I'm disregarding. (Dad? Care to shed some light?)

But I think that really, truly, the best path for me is this one: Go to bakery. Purchase Irish soda bread. Bash it around a bit so it looks homemade. Place on table at dinner. Immediately consume one metric ton of who know what that makes my mouth light on fire but is SO DELICIOUS. Praise self for thinking ahead with regard to elastic waist. AND wait for next year.

1 comment:

  1. God, I miss you. This is such great Undiluted Pamela.