I am thankful that I’m in a position to be able to volunteer in Clara Jane’s classroom, even if it’s going to kill me. Two weeks ago that meant chasing a pack of kindergarteners up Monk’s Mound.

Really. What the hell was my fat ass thinking? Well, I know what my fat ass was thinking. It was thinking, “Robin’s brain, you may think you know shit, but you don’t and if you try to climb that I’m going to make sure you suffer greatly.”

Those kids were long gone by the time I got to the top with some other moms who, like me, are slighty older and probably should have considered we’d be middle-aged and tired by the time kindergarten rolled around. There was much high-fiving and heaving.

Monk’s Mound truly is awesome, but I think from now on I’ll celebrate it with spiritual introspection or, if the opportunity arises, sitting on the bottom step in the middle of the night, drinking beer.

A week later I volunteered to help the class bake bread. Did you bake bread in kindergarten? We didn’t. Mean ol’ Mrs. Albright was far too pinched and repressed to partake in activities that relate to the inherent debauchery of humans, such as eating.

The kindergarteners got to make wheat yeast bread with a snazzy techique that involved mixing all the ingredients in a zipper bag (tidy!), then kneading it.

(Clara Jane, making bread with a boy who calls her his “little princess”. She confessed recently that she thinks she’s “kind of in love” with him. And now they’re baking together.)

That’s some great-looking dough, isn’t it?

Just imagine that warm, soft, yeasty aroma of bread freshly baked my loving little hands.

Now think about how many boogers are it in.

I kid you not, I’m pretty sure I witnessed every single kid – mine included – with a finger up a nose at some point during the bread-making process. Never, ever eat anything made by kindergarteners. Ever.

Today, in one last blast before turning the little booger bakers loose for Thanksgiving, they prepared a Thanksgiving feast. Again, more boogers. But what a feast of boogers it was! Turkey breast sandwiches, creamed corn (frozen corn with cream cheese and butter, warmed in a Crock Pot), candied carrots, and fruit salad.

For the salad, each child had to bring a piece of a favorite fresh fruit. Yesterday I realized that most of our apples had gone mealy, so after school Clara Jane and I hit the grocery store. She picked out two apples for the salad and we grabbed a few for home, including two organic Honeycrisps, which cost about $2 a pound more than the organic lesser apples I bought for the children. I made a mental note to make sure the cashier realized the two pricier apples.

No, really. I’m that kind of person.

While waiting in line to pay, Clara Jane zeroed in on the candy rack and said, “My breath isn’t minty fresh. I need these.” She showed me a tin of Icebreakers.

“Your breath is just fine. Put the mints away.”

“But my breath! It’s not minty!”

“Your breath is delightful. Put them away.”

By the third time I told her to put it away, she consented. I saw her hand in the little case, placing the mints in it when I turned to pay. She may have to be told three times to do every single thing, but she always consents.

Right before we reached the doors, I saw a flash of blue in Clara Jane’s hand.

Not only had she stolen candy, she didn’t even steal good candy. She stole fucking Icebreaker mints!

I’m not sure what part of the scenario disappointment me the most.

So, we made the Thieving Walk of Shame back to the register so she could begrudgingly return the mints, telling the cashier she “accidentally” walked off with them. I might believe that, had I not seen her pretending to put the damn things away shortly before I turned my back on the little klepto.

I was so mad that I knew I couldn’t say anything in the busy store to her because I would go the fuck off. We’re talking short-circuited foghorn-style verbal meltdown. That’s not good for anyone. So I got her to the truck, told her I was disappointed, explained stealing, made her sob, gave her a hug and a kiss, took her home, made her tell Brian and cry again. That’s appropriate, right?

It wasn’t until many hours later that I looked at the receipt and noticed that I’d paid $1.99/pound for my $3.99/pound apples.

Do as I say, not as I do, Clara Jane.

So we slept the sleep of the shamed in preparation for today’s Thanksgiving feast. The morning didn’t go well, probably because we are thieves and our karma’s down the drain. Just like my first cup of coffee and brain drugs, which made a return visit before I left the house due to a rattly coughing fit.

I didn’t think I’d throw up until I’d eaten one of the tainted apples.

The kids were supposed to dress as pilgrims or Native Americans today. She opted to wear the paper bag Native American vest, she made in class, which is just as well. My plan was to give her a headdress and a blanket with “SMALLPOX” scrawled on it in big red letters.

Hi. I’m “That Mom”. The one whose family steals from the grocery store and ruins historical glossiness. Next up: we’re telling the other kids the truth about Santa!

I’m not allowed to go on anymore field trips, am I?

So, after vomiting and wisely ditching my plans for political uprising via my child, we made it to school. Not being intimidated by children with plastic knives hacking away at a whole pineapple, I volunteered to help at the fruit salad station. I’m a food professional! Making lunch for all the teachers on Monday! I have taught young ones to cook with scarier implements than plastic knives. This is nothing!

The kids did a great job.

I, on the other hand, managed to slice myself not once, but twice. And I bled all over an apple.

This year, I am thankful that I haven’t been hauled to a child welfare endangerment work camp. God bless us and our booger feast-eating hearts.