“Wild,” was the word the librarian used. Her observation wasn’t about a new Best Seller. It was in reference to the kids at today’s workshop. And, until they finally settled down for my slide presentation, that’s exactly what most of them were. Like rambunctious puppies let off their leash to run loose and shit all over the Dog Park. Then roll in it.

The “wild” quip came after our class had left the library and I walked back across the street with my nail polish remover and paper towels to scrub off the permanent marker scribbles caked like blood along the bottom of the library’s dry erase board. Our popular preschool co-op (and you know how I feel about this ludicrous preschool homeschooler concept) met there earlier in the week with an invitation to use the large paper pad and markers on the easel. Obviously, none of this damage was my teen’s doing. But apparently, it was my job to undo.

Well, okay, I volunteered – but only through default – after several librarians scolded us over the graffiti and questioned how to get it off. I told everyone: nail polish remover. Yet not one mother who attended Monday’s free-for-all jumped in her car, drove a quarter of a mile in either direction to a convenience or dollar store, bought a bottle of acetone, grabbed some TP from the bathroom and right their wrong right there and then. Instead, two women pulled out their date books to figure out the NEXT time they’d be at the library, while the mom in charge of the co-op that day slinked out the door in mid-conversation.

Their matter of fact explanation about the mistaken markers consisted of, oh yes, having seen the kids writing on the pad and the board underneath, but they figured the markers were of the dry erase persuasion so, hey, what-me-worry, nobody bothered to take those few big-girl steps across the room just to make sure.

Gee, Officer, I thought the gun wasn’t loaded…

When I saw the news report about Volumes One and Two of “Sesame Street: Old School” being released on DVD with the warning that the episodes are intended for “grown-ups,” and may not “suit the needs of today’s preschool child,” I thought I’d caught an old SNL clip of Chevy Chase's Weekend Update.

I grew up watching animated animals annihilate one another only to spawn and start again; Popeye the Sailor storm around muttering stuff I didn’t quite understand while beating the shit out of anybody who crossed him; and a prehistoric baby with a bone in her hair selling Welch’s Grape Juice in primetime. Now, that’s “Old School.” And if you really want a kid’s show for “grown-ups,” check out Betty Boop prancing around in her lacey slip and garter belt. Hubba-hubba!

Both my kids, even though they’re 20 years apart, grew up watching Sesame Street with their mom. And although I can’t remember ever needing to have a conversation about it, I’m sure neither would credit Alistair Cookie of “Monsterpiece Theater” with any pipe-smoking or pipe-eating addictions and then attempt to sue Sesame Street because of it. But the producers’ lawyers must have felt the need, fearful that there’s gotta be somebody out here who would.

No need to sing PBS’s praises. You can take their programming or change the channel (especially during a Ken Burns marathon.) But the real, non-litigated damage is the tens-of-thousands of parents who will mindlessly buy into that laughable CYA disclaimer and now view the show with suspicious eyes. They may even add Sesame Street to their Cable TV’s Parental Block list along with Nip/Tuck and reruns of Jackass.

Too bad, because I’m pretty sure seeing grown men go airborne in metal shopping carts would suit the needs of today’s preschool child pretty well.

One of my frustrations with some parents is their protestations over any proposed activity that even hints at the possibility of dirty hands, clothing stains or food spillage.

After much fanfare, when it came time to get a final head count for a Summer afternoon tie-dye party, several families took a last-minute pass. Not because of Baltimore’s oppressive, hair-curling humidity but because flashbacks of pouring RIT Powder Dye into a bucket of steaming-hot water while wearing Playtex Living Gloves popped into their heads. We used pre-mixed Dharma Dyes in squeeze bottles and wore surgical type latex gloves instead. Groovy, man.

For Halloween, my older kids’ craft was painting pumpkins. Again, there was some fuss. “The paint won’t dry and will get all over the kids’ costumes. It’ll be messy.” Don’t tell, but I was gonna use glitter glue on the gourds’ stalks. Beware! One of the few things in the world of Make-and-Take crafts scarier than paint is glitter, much less glitter mixed with glue.

They lucked out. After I had to tell Morgan he couldn’t wear his Leatherface mask or bring his matching chainsaw because they would be too scary for the little kids, my teen decided even the promise of trick-or-treat candy wasn’t worth it. I shoulda known. These are the same women who won’t attend a local theatre production of 101 Dalmatians for the same reason. Scary…

The last straw was the decision to serve only eggless cupcakes (with as little icing as possible) and cheap-ass Dixie Cups ice cream (that come with those flat wooden spoons) at our end-of-year fundraiser. In part to save funds and in part to avoid—you guessed it—mess. Obviously, my Sundae Station suggestion got nixed.

Tell me—how can you raise creative kids if one of your prime directives is to NOT create a mess?

In total befuddlement, I resigned from our homeschool Steering Committee this morning. Bottom line? A woman’s gotta know her limitations. And it seemed like I was doing an awful lotta rowing, but didn’t get to do much steering. Meanwhile, we’re moored in the shallows because others prefer to just drag their feet like anchors over the side.

I understand as the mother of a 13-year-old boy, his interests and needs are different than the group’s median age of six. Yes, six (6), as in second-graders. Almost half of the children in the group are not of “legal” homeschool age, and several of them have no older siblings who are. (Gee, I though EVERY Mom of a 3-year-old already IS a home educating Mom.) But now that homeschooling is so hip, many parents with toddlers are calling themselves “Homeschoolers.” Of course, their moniker may change when they move beyond macaroni necklaces and Veggie Tales.

But when I was told that I am “intense” and “a perfectionist,” I had to laugh, then beg to differ. Okay, maybe I am a little high-strung (i.e.: menopause). But a “perfectionist?” Never! I am as lazy, neglectful and slovenly as the next parent. And if expecting group activities that require an adult’s independent thought, creativity and follow-through instead of photocopying some lame-ass camel cutout as the “older kids” craft for the Egypt co-op is considered being a perfectionist, our children are in big-big trouble.

Yet instead of asking this all-volunteer crew to sit up straight, grab a paddle and help head for deeper, more bountiful, waters, I was told that would be counter-productive (i.e.: mean) and nothing/nobody is gonna change. And, well, sorry, but could I be “okay” with that? Well, sorry, no, I can’t.

Better to jump ship now while I can still wade to shore before the skiff crashes on the rocks.

Okay, well, I'm not sure if I still have the hormones to be passionate about anything anymore. But I can tell you – I’m definitely still pissed off. About everything. So I might as well start spewing it out again instead of continuing to shallow, hard.