When I was around seven or eight I was very curious, and a lot of the time I would ask some very interesting questions.
Me: “Where do babies come from?”
My aunt, totally unprepared, quickly came up with an answer.
Aunt: “Uhh… C section?”
Me: “What about the A and B sections?”
Being the parents of two boys two and under, my husband and I don’t often go out to eat, both because of finances and because, well, they’re pretty young, and expecting them to sit through a whole meal can sometimes be asking a lot. However, my husband and I were given a gift card. We tried numerous times to arrange babysitters, but it just didn’t work out.
So, finally, after almost a year, we went. I met my husband there, we went around 4:30 (before our boys were hungry for dinner), and I brought snacks just in case. I beat my husband there, so I took the boys in and got seated.
Of course, my two-year-old started crying. He was hungry, but the snacks weren’t his thing today. I was trying everything I could think of to help him calm when our server appeared. He smiled patiently as I finished buckling our dramatic two-year-old in place and then set down an appetizer “on the house.”
He quickly asked what he could get them (and me) to drink and hurried back. My two-year-old immediately quieted; his needs were met. The restaurant ended up getting packed by the time we got our food, but our server still checked on us frequently.
It ended up being a great family dinner. When I asked if I could speak to the manager to brag about him, he humbly said that it wasn’t needed. We tipped well, but I hope that server knows that what he did was more appreciated than I could express.
I am a teacher.
Counselor: “You speak Spanish, don’t you?”
Me: “I lived in Mexico twenty years ago, but my Spanish is really rusty.”
Counselor: “Could you translate a meeting with some parents who don’t really speak English? I need to tell them how their son’s doing. No one else is available.”
Me: “Sure, but please speak very slowly, and don’t use any complicated words. If it’s just the basics, I can translate.”
Right after, the parents arrive and we introduce ourselves.
Me: “Remember, use simple language, please.”
Counselor: “No problem.” *To the parents* “I’d like to discuss the rubric for the Socratic seminar…”
We have a new second-grade teacher hired from another state. She puts up a bulletin board to spotlight student work and to highlight their successes. She’s from Denver, and she titles it with a phrase popular in Colorado.
Later, the administration had to politely ask her not to title her display of classwork “The Mile High Club.”
Every year, my dad volunteers at our church’s annual summer camp for kids. On the last day of camp, they always have a big party with snow cones. Dad always volunteers to run the snow cone table.
One of the kids’ mothers is also a volunteer, and a real Helicopter Mom. Her young daughter is a little bit hyperactive and excitable. Since Helicopter Mom seems to get most of her medical advice from blogs instead of pediatricians, she’s decided that certain food additives and sweeteners are the cause of her daughter’s high energy. All camp, she’s been bringing in special snacks for her daughter, which isn’t a problem at all. Before the traditional snow cone party, Helicopter Mom announces that she is going to bring in a special syrup for her daughter since all of the snow cone flavors have artificial colors in them.
On the day of the party, Helicopter Mom shows up with a milk jug half-full of some weird homemade concoction made of corn syrup, water, and some combination of “all-natural” flavors. It’s viscous and thick, with chalky streaks of light yellow and green. Gross, but, no problem, thinks Dad; he can keep the kid’s special syrup in a little squirt bottle and set it off to the side.
Nope! Helicopter Mom doesn’t want her daughter’s special snow cone flavor in a separate bottle lest she feel singled out and discriminated! She instead takes a nearly-full jug of root beer flavor and dumps it all down the sink. She fills the pump jug with her homemade syrup and gives it to Dad.
Later, during the party, the kids are lining up for their snow cones and telling the Dad what flavors they want. Dad’s been struggling about what to call the Mystery Syrup until he gets an inspiration:
Kid: “What flavors do you have?”
Dad: “Well, we have cherry, grape, blue raspberry…”
Kid: *Pointing at the homemade syrup* “What’s that one?”
Dad: “Uh… that’s… um… ELEPHANT SNOT!”
Kid: “EEEEEEEWWWWW!”
Dad then pumps an amount onto his gloved hand. It shoots a big, gooey glop out with a coughing sound. He squeezes it out of his fingers, and it drips out in long, sticky strings. The kids are delighted!
Dad: “EEEEEEW!
Multiple Kids: *Laughing and shrieking* “EWWWWWWW!”
Kid: “I want elephant snot!”
Dad gleefully pumps the homemade syrup onto the snow cone. The syrup spreads over the top and oozes over the ice.
Dad: “Here you go! One elephant snot snow cone!”
All The Kids: “EWWWWWWW!”
Dad had a hit! About every tenth kid asked for the elephant snot flavor, and each time, he cried out, “Elephant snot?! Ewwwwwww!” as he pumped it out. The kids who ordered it were loving all the attention they were getting from their grossed-out friends as they gleefully ate their “elephant snot” snow cones.
Everything was going great until Helicopter Mom’s group showed up with her daughter in tow. She was FURIOUS when she heard Dad call her homemade syrup “Elephant Snot.” She stormed off to complain to the pastor as dad served the kids (including a snow cone for the daughter) but Dad didn’t hear the conversation. Later, the pastor pulled Dad aside. Luckily, he had a great sense of humor about the whole debacle, but he respectfully asked Dad not to refer to the syrup as the mucus of a large mammal. Dad laughingly agreed.
Later, the Helicopter Mom was able to get her daughter some medical treatment for her daughter’s undiagnosed ADHD and loosened up quite a bit about her daughter’s snacks. We’ve not had a summer camp at the church since, but I’m wondering if elephant snot will be offered at the next snow cone party!
