thoughts from the 3rd grade pancake breakfast
My job for the past decade has been to run Christmas at a charity, which means the month of December has been even busier than it usually is with young kids. When I switched jobs in June I got really excited for the possibility of school Christmas volunteering, and when the room mom sent out the sign up genius in September I saw my chance. Last day of school before break…the 3rd grade pancake breakfast. Since we were in lockdown for most of kinder and first grade and parents weren’t allowed at school in second grade I assumed this was like most parties and the only way for a parent to gain entry was to volunteer. I signed up, emailed the room mom back last week when she confirmed I was coming, said I’d bring a griddle but wasn’t the best pancake flipper and was assured I wouldn’t need to flip pancakes and I’d be there to witness the class play of the 7 minute version of “A Christmas Carol”.
The Ghost of Christmas Future informed me on the way out the door to school that it would be lovely if she had a black robe. I suggested my black north face jacket, was assured the GoCF would not have pink piping and dropped her off at the crosswalk ‘cause ain’t nobody got time for car line when you have to drop off the four year old and get back for a relaxing volunteer opportunity.
On the way to the multipurpose room carrying a griddle, spatula, and Star Wars pancake molds I pass Hunter’s mom in the hallway with a microwave and bags of pancakes. Hunter is a third born child, and Hunter’s mom is a genius. I walk by her admiring her brilliance and starting to worry a bit and may have heard her snicker, but in a friendly “I’ve been there rookie” kinda way.
I get to the multipurpose room where 6 tables with chairs, a small buffet line and two parents with griddles going are located. The room moms of the two classes coming to this feast are buzzing around, putting centerpieces on the tables and turning the giant rolled in TV to a merrily crackling fire with carols playing. I cheerfully say hi, set up my griddle and….blow the fuse. Everyone looks mildly confused but we switch a griddle over to the wall, put the rest on the extension cord and…blow the fuse. The dad flipping pancakes starts plugging the griddles and extension cord into different outlets. you’ll never guess what happens. Three more times.
I start hauling desks over by the fire extinguisher on the other side of the room where I see an outlet, set myself up and turn on my griddle. The room mom stirring the pancake batter is…um…snail paced. something clearly showed in my eyes because she cheerily says “I just had shoulder surgery, this is great PT!” I ponder my volunteer choices. I blink a lot more than is normal trying ot subdue my fight or flight response. Five minutes later I have a griddle, batter, and a plate for pancakes and parents, grandparents and siblings start arriving. Because apparently EVERYONE is invited to pancake breakfast and I could’ve been here as a spectator.
So I’m flipping, the other mom and two dads are flipping, the room moms are…fluttering? and I’m on my second batch of pancakes when it becomes obvious they are no longer cooking. You’ll never guess what happened. You guessed the fuse but no….we blew power to the whole multipurpose room. This is when we lose the TV with the crackling fire…and the room moms. They are distraught. The event cannot go on. The children must have carols. My suggestion that the kids can imagine a fire does not go over well. I remember that many people don’t understand my sense of humor. The room moms fret.
The principal and vice principal are called to assist with the power because clearly that is their job. The teacher comes to tell us the kids are on the way after they wash hands so they can be “super clean!” having lived with our children for the past eight years we all know this to be a lie. We smile cheerfully, prepared to serve 22 finished pancakes to 30 third graders and large chunks of their families.
It occurs to the room moms that the third graders have nowhere to sit because the six tables are now full of family. A mad rush of room moms and volunteer dads starts pulling out tables and chairs. The smart parents all sit there, relishing their life choices. The other pancake flipper mom plugs her and the dad’s griddle into the side outlet that connects to the gym. Success! They are up and running! The principal and vice principal come over to the electrical closet near me to try and figure out how the school built in the 1980s is wired. I make a joke about them having bottles of wine in their fridge labelled “room moms” and they give me side eye and chuckle wearily. I remember hubs telling me that most people don’t understand my sense of humor.
The children enter gleefully and the room moms start asking for more pancakes. Since the flipper dads were setting up tables we’re only up to 28 pancakes and I have no power. The art teacher takes pity on me and runs an extension cord from her room where she’s been hiding and hooks me up with a new cookspot - the weird art room closet where I assume she also goes to question her life choices. I move my desks and griddle and I’m back in business!
Just then the GOcF comes running to see me and asks if I can sit with her for pancake breakfast. I’m like “buddy, if I don’t get flipping there will BE no pancakes, come back and visit me in a bit”.
What follows is what I assume being a cook at IHOP is like, if the cook was in the art room closet. Batter is flying, pancakes are flipping, room moms are telling me that now the kids have been fed but no parents have eaten. I keep flipping.
I get a small seven minute respite during “A Christmas Carol” where the Ghost of Christmas future reads her lines of “Scene 1” “Scene 2” “Scene 3” “Scene 4” and “Scene 5” brilliantly. Tiny Tim is on her knees and when Scrooge goes to the past to see the christmas party Bob Cratchet is dabbing and shaking what his mama gave him. When we get to the big scene the crew forgets to bring in the chair cushion coffin, requiring a lot of hissing from the cast. The coffin is lowered into the grave, Scrooge clearly can’t remember if he’s supposed to be upright or on the coffin cushion and the GoCF rises menacingly in full tie dye fluffy jammies with a menacing “oooooooohhhhhhhhhh”. In a shocking turn of events Scrooge changes his ways, Tiny Tim’s entire family is now inexplicably on their knees (are they little people now?) and the GoCF delivers her solemn line that now everyone can live in peace and joy. I applaud the bowing and then get back to my closet so that these thespians will not revolt for lack of pancakes. I run out of batter. I make the batter myself, not trusting shoulder mom and am trying to figure out where to get water when I am told there is a teacher’s lounge past the water fountain. I pass the room with the supplies and janitor’s cart and microwave and sink looking for the teacher’s lounge before I realize that IS the teacher’s lounge. It becomes even clearer to me how much more the teachers need to be paid. I go back to my closet.
The star of the play comes to visit me and informs me that I should probably eat that one pancake that got flipped over weird so no one will see it. I question why I wanted children so badly. She goes off to sit with her friend but does very sweetly bring me a plate of whipped cream and syrup (turns out there were also two pancakes under there) and some orange juice because I am now actively sweating in my closet. She comes back a few minutes later with a couple of friends to watch me flip and a little girl giggles and asks me for a tiny pancake (a drip of batter that was on the griddle). I oblige her and thus seal my own fate. These children signal other children (possibly telepathically?) and I am inundated. The future queen bees of middle and high school make court by my batter desk and keep pretending they haven’t had any yet. the GoCF keeps going in and out and bringing more kids, clearly feeling important and sternly repeating “you must have a napkin to get a tiny pancake! they are hot!” to every boy that shows up without one. The kids tell other kids. More kids keep coming. I am now only making tiny pancakes. The large ones are the size of a quarter, the smallest the size of my fingernails. The children are delighted. I am singing a tiny pancake song in the voice of the Swedish chef. The queen bees are judging me while jostling for pancakes. I know their kind and ignore them as I do their moms. The sweet quiet kids who keep getting jostled to the back are given the best tiny pancakes and I make up names for what they are based on the shapes of their weird random dribbles. “Ah yes, the star cruiser for you! Here’s a reindeer!” Two queen bees loudly insist they each MUST have an accidental snowman. I have seen this play out one too many times in my life as a nerd and I decapitate him and give them each half. The boys are delighted. The queen bees seem confused. My daughter is in her glory.
A report comes back that a boy in two piece button up pajamas got his tiny pancake stolen by Jax. And then another report from a child who is gonna be revered for his size on the high school football team but for now just looks awkward in jammies. I stand for no bullying in my tiny pancake world. I demand Jax be brought to me and I inform him that it is jerky to steal tiny pancakes and I will have no more of it. All of the children in my closet and the line outside say “oooooo” and you know the exact tone they used.
At this point I’m genuinely wondering where the adults are. Like, the real adults. Why do I have half the third grade in a closet with a griddle and no one is looking for them? I wonder this out loud and get some awkward answers… “my parents are working, my grandparents went to my sister’s party instead, my mom just ignores me anyway, she won’t care”. I slip the queen bee in the fuzzy avocado poncho some extra tiny pancakes with more empathy in my heart. Suddenly - AN ADULT! We all freeze like we’ve been caught pouring booze into the school dance punch. Children start yelling “you see nothing! nothing is happening!”. The mom laughs and insists she is there solely as a mom and not as a teacher, winks, and leaves me alone with my adoring minions.
I am wearing a UNC Christmas sweater and a boy in a Wake Forest jersey comes up to ask for a tiny pancake. He eyes my sweater with disdain. I inform him that we don’t even care about Wake enough to consider them a rival. I am prepared to pass on the grudge of Tobacco Road down to the next generation. He asks again politely for a tiny pancake AND I OBLIGE. This pancake is smaller than your average lady bug. this pancake is so small it is unflippable with the spatula and must be turned with enough force by a single fingernail to cook the other side. The children are all squealing and laughing, Wake boy is giggling and the world’s teeeeeeniest pancake goes to the child who dared give UNC side eye. Other children start processing their love for other teams. I threaten to throw them out of my closet.
The teacher from the other class approaches and stands at the door laughing. Since she has not been privy to my forced advances of best friendship like our teacher has (our teacher is amazing but her professional boundaries confused me at first. didn’t she love me? didn’t she want to be besties? want to text me? the answer is no. the poor woman wanted to teach the slightly neurotic gifted kids and then go the heck home. I now respect this deeply after my time flipping and will continue to Amazon more snacks to the classroom.) She finds me charming instead of slightly unhinged. Our teacher comes to tell my acolytes that it is time to head back to class and they grown as I shoo them away. My kiddo hugs me, eyes shining, and I remember why I wanted kids so badly and how much I secretly adore making silly memories with small humans.
The kids head back to class, the other parents leave and it’s down to us and the room moms to clean up. I start bleach wiping the closet while the griddle dries. The flipper dads put the tables away and then…leave their griddle table covered in batter because, men. The room moms are dividing up the extra pancakes to take to the front office and teachers (that’s right, we rallied so hard there were EXTRA pancakes) and we all get packed up. It has somehow only been 93 minutes and I am exhausted. I thank myself for running and grabbing starbucks gift cards before coming to thank these people who show up every day to do this kind of thing on purpose. I do not give starbucks cards to the room moms because their excruciating planning offends my inner prepared Girl Scout and instead head to the office to thank those kind souls (we already gave the teacher her gift).
On my way to the office who should I pass but….the third grade, on their way to specials and in an orderly line. It is clear this teacher has better small human management than I do. I kind of nod politely to the front of the line and EVERY SINGLE ONE of those tiny humans thanks me gleefully for coming, for flipping, for my tiny pancakes. I give my kiddo a hug, wish them all Merry Christmas and head to the office to St. Nick some Starbucks gift cards to people with exhaustion in their eyes and love in their hearts.
I remember why I wanted kids so badly, why it’s fun to volunteer (but thank heavens not have to always be locked in a classroom with them), and why I have made one pan fancy pancakes and frozen pancakes a staple in my house.
And also I remember that Hunter’s mom is a genius and make a mental note to suggest frozen pancakes when the four year old is old enough for the 3rd grade pancake breakfast.
Small human heads have been cropped to protect the identities of the small humans. but just look at those tiny pancakes!