Overthinking Everything: School Party Edition
After what we are calling the Unfortunate Gingerbread Incident, I am more cognizant now of the minefield of classroom holidays, and thanks to Pinterest, I am completely paranoid about how high the bar can be set. And while I love the Bloggess’ ideas for classroom valentines (“Bee Mine”, attached to a bag of live bees, and giving every kid a kitten top my list of faves), that probably isn’t going to be practical. Where am I going to get that many bees, for starters?
How darling are these, for classroom valentines? The are a free printable, from Sweet Muffin Suite, and I can get glitter pencils from Oriental Trading. However, this is my problem: I love these, obviously. They are like Pinterest catnip to me. But is this the valentine that my girls want to give out, or the valentine I want the other moms to see my girls give out? I mean, I love the glitter pencil, and we always attach something to the valentines, but is it better to let the kids go to Target and pick out a character-themed valentine card pack, like Spongebob, or to make something like this at home?
The pro is, if I do this, my husband will help. We are trying to do these parenting things together, and it is kind of fun to dye easter eggs with him, to decorate for Xmas, to make valentines together. We get out the good bottle of Rye, put some music on, and get our craft on. And I appreciate it so much, that he doesn’t hang me out to dry, 100% responsible for being the one who plays the Stay At Home Mom role, who gets involved in this stuff. Also, he is an artist, so he can appreciate the fun of getting a little messy and drunk at the same time.
The con is, we have two girls, which means 50+ valentines. Do I have the patience to make 50 valentines? I am not sure. Am I overthinking this? OF COURSE I AM. That is what graduate school does to you – it makes you cautious of the dominant narratives, cognizant of the hegemonic reading of every object, and paranoid of your every motive. If you are looking for me, I will be over in the corner, weeping into my copy of Bourdieu and unpacking my giant backpack of white privilege.