It's My Job

Last week, I was the Mystery Reader in George's class. Lest you think I'm a super-charged, high-volunteering, PTO kind of Mom, let me assure you that this is one of the very few times I volunteer in my kids' classrooms. I love, love, love to the be the class reader. And they love, love, love for me to stay as far away from school as possible. But as I always explain to them, it's my job as their Mother to embarrass them. Someday, I assure them, they'll look back and appreciate the spirit and joie de vivre that I brought into their young lives.

Right now, they're not so sure.

When I walked into George's classroom last week, his teacher announced, "Well, our Mystery Reader is here today!" Every little third grade head turned around to see who the elusive Mystery Reader was. But George's reaction was priceless. He did the classic, slow-motion double-take... and when the dreaded realization hit, his face turned 583 shades of purple.

"Does anyone know whose Mom this is?" George's teacher asked.

Many of the kids raised their hands.

"I do! I do! It has to be George's Mom because his face is SO RED!"

When I settled in down to read, George sat as far away from me as humanly possible. In fact, if he could have pushed his back through the locker he was leaning against, he would gladly have disappeared into the lunch bags and backpacks until his greatest torment was over.

And what did I get to share with the third graders?

The dramatic reader's dream: "The Indian In the Cupboard."

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this particular story, let me elaborate on the vast potential for kid embarrassment contained within. There are TWO distinct accents that I got to create -- the very un-PC Indian dialect and the drunk cowboy vernacular.

Before I opened the book, George's teacher discreetly whispered to me, "If you get to the part about the cowboy drinking whiskey, make something else up instead. Call it tea or water or Diet Coke or something."

So, friends, I had to be on my "A" game the entire time lest I encourage those little buggers to drink whiskey and suffer from delirium tremens.

And let me just say that it's impossible to NOT do an un-PC Indian accent when the dialogue is written in this manner: "You, Boy, find me squaw. Then I do happy dance. I do love dance."

And it's just as impossible to NOT do a drunk cowboy accent when the dialogue is written as such: "Shucks! I jest need me a gud naught's sleep, and aw'l be gud as neeyew in the mernin'!"

Try it. I dare you.

And so, I entertained the class with my over-exaggerated cowboy drawl and my deep Indian staccato -- much to the dismay of my youngest son.

"WHY did you have to do the ACCENTS?" he asked with great disdain when he arrived home.

"They were written that way, George," I explained. "Didn't my accents make the story more exciting?"

"No, it made the story more EMBARRASSING!" he cried. "Please don't EVER be the Mystery Reader again!"

"Well, George, I might be the Mystery Reader again," I explained. "Your teacher asked me to come back."

He sighed heavily and plodded downstairs to consider this sad and unsuitable state of affairs.

But just between you and me? George's teacher said I did the best accents of any of her Mystery Readers. With that kind of praise, do you really think I'm NOT coming back? I am an Approval Whore, after all.

And I'd call that particular performance an A+++.