The day was hot and the battlefield dusty. A white orb, a split second, a willingness to dive that extra inch is all that separated the winners from those who simply weren’t ready. Mother vs. Female Teacher Dodge Ball: 2008.
Why no Fathers vs. Male Teacher Dodge Ball: 2008? Because the fathers all have jobs. I like when things fall into place like that and I don’t have to participate.
This was entertainment that only a perfect window view and a bag of Raisinets could comprehend. Mothers and female teachers are to human relationships what peanut butter is to jelly.
It is a well known fact among food items and people paying enough attention that, despite appearances, peanut butter and jelly secretly hate one another. They are always wary, afraid that the other will steal the affections of the consumer. Bread is a pedestal built for one. Similarly, a child only has enough capacity for one female archetype in their life.
Jealousy is a ball best dodged…just not today.
A hoard of women weave together like a school of fish avoiding a predator, they duck and they dodge as the ball flies, carelessly in contrast, picking them out, one by one, from the crowd. The women push others in the way. They jump and dive. One falls on her ass and is left with a broken ego and a backside full of dust.
The ball does not differentiate between the classroom tested guile of elderly teachers and the youthful exhaustedness of a new mother any more than it differentiates between the sweetness of jelly and the saltiness of peanut butter. It is the ultimate arbitrator.
Apocalypse now! It screams as it weeds out the weak from the weaker. Teachers on the left, mothers on the right.
Then it is two. They are young and agile. Full of spirit when they began they are now battle tested and weary. I am running out of Raisinets.
A scream. A bounce. A wave of excitement. The ball floats through the air. The previous day one of the teachers at my school told me she used to love dodge ball as a kid. However, when she became older she didn’t like balls flying at her face.
Then it is over. A fallen victim dusts off her clothes and stares at the ground in futility. The war is not over, but for today the battle is decided.
Peanut Butter is queen.