I know, I know.
But it was their special Thanksgiving feast and all the little kids had made little hats and everything. I was suckered by the thought of not only getting some extra credit points for the next time the Oldest One acts up, but also some laughs and great blog material.
(And I certainly did. Get blog material that is. The Big One is sooo on his own after I served canned green beans and almost ruined the Stove Top.)
There was this one little girl, though, who helped remind me why I would NEVER, EVER work at a preschool. She was cute, with little pig tails and a frilly dress. She smiled at me every time we made eye contact, which was often because she was also staring at me. But none the less, she was cute. When lunch time came she sat down across from the Oldest One and said, “My mommy made the rolls.” I told her that they were simply yummy and her mommy did a great job! (They were the kind you take the plastic wrap off and put the entire container in the oven. But still, the stove was turned on and that is effort in my book.) But here’s the thing, every time I walked by her she would announce that her mommy made the rolls. It didn’t matter if I was serving another helping to the next kid, threatening the Oldest to stay in his seat or wiping milk of Deuce’s shirt, “My Mommy Made the Rolls!” Every. Damn. Time.
I had finally had enough. Between roll girl and the kid who asked 20 times if we were going to eat the paper turkeys on the table, I was ready to hit the door. On the last round of clean up, the little roll girl said it again. By that time, I was done. I simply leaned over and said, “Yes, sweetie. We all know your mommy made the rolls and they were wonderful rolls. She did a great job. But you know what? I opened the can of green beans and you ate them and liked them.”