I’m not quite sure how this happened, but somehow the PTA has
gotten a hold of my phone number.
Now, don’t get me wrong.
I’m not quite sure how this happened, but somehow the PTA has gotten a hold of my phone number.
Now, don’t get me wrong. They seem like a nice, friendly group of people, despite all those bake sales and cookie dough fund-raisers. But apparently, since I work from home, they must figure that I have oodles of free time after I finish vacuuming, and, instead of aimlessly wandering around looking for activities to fill the empty void, my day could be much better spent, say, volunteering at the annual book fair.
And between you and me, they’re probably right. But that’s not why I let them talk me into doing it. Oh, no. It was mainly because a) it would be a great way to get involved at my children’s school, b) I would develop a sense of deep satisfaction from helping others, and c) I felt really, really guilty.
When I arrived at the book fair, the volunteer parent on the previous shift greeted me enthusiastically and quickly explained that all I needed to do was to help the children find books and then ring up their purchases on the cash register.
“Don’t worry, it’s simple,” she assured me. “Just press the red button to enter the price of the book, and the blue button for subtotals—unless they have more than two books and want to pay by check. Then you use the yellow round one on the left. If you press the green square key, the correct change will pop up on the screen, but only if they paid cash—not ATM or credit cards. See? Easy, huh?”
“No problem.” I could handle money. After all, I’d been through college and had worked in a fast food restaurant before. Plus, there was always the chance that no one would buy anything.
My hopes were dashed when a group of elementary school children, dizzy with freedom and pockets full of change, burst through the door.
“Do you have any Goosebumps books here?” a little boy asked. “Like the one about the giant, fire-breathing monster with laser eyes and blood fangs that smashes cars with its bare feet?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, looking through the shelves. “But how about this nice book about a talking duck who gets lost in the forest and is helped by a friendly little squirrel?”
“Forget it,” he said, and he turned to his friend. “Geez, whose mom is this, anyway?”
But it didn’t matter what he thought. The most important thing was that I was taking the time to volunteer and support my school.
Fortunately, things started going better, since most of the other children left me alone—all except for a few demanding kids who kept insisting on buying books. Now, don’t think badly of me; I would have gladly rung up their purchases if I could have remembered the color scheme.
However, the children didn’t give up easily, and before I knew it, a long line had formed in front of the register. I could sense the crowd was going to get ugly, if I didn’t do something fast.
So I did what any educated, responsible adult would do: I frantically started pressing all of the buttons, hoping the right combination would either make the drawer fly open or set off the fire alarm, so we could all evacuate the building and go home.
“That’s not how you do it,” a five-year-old girl explained, reaching over. She pressed the red button, and the cash register gave the price, and the drawer sprang open. She was obviously a future PTA president.
By the end of the day, I realized that volunteering had given me a real sense of satisfaction, after all. Or maybe it was just the adrenaline rush. Whatever it was, I hoped next time the PTA would give me something easier to do, like baking 87 dozen cupcakes.
