Not Playing Around

I have an extremely low tolerance for forced relationships. Does it make me totally shallow to admit that I thoroughly enjoy and cherish super easy friendships? Maybe it's because I've had various difficult personalites to deal with in my life (read: family) that it has led me to feel so strongly about those friendships that happen naturally and effortlessly. Those people with whom I feel I can totally be my silly, sappy, ridiculously emotional and raw self. The special peeps in my orbit who every single time I get together with them there is such raucous laughter, prolonged witty banter which no one else quite gets, and such honest-to-goodness great fun that it could be days later when I'm riding on the C train and I smile to myself, already reminiscing about our last get together and how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends. Ahhh, if only everyone I knew could offer such richness to my life (and I to theirs, of course. Two way street and all).

So it should come as no surprise that playgroups are fairly high on my hate-to-do list. Not that anyone in particular has a gun to my head but somehow I feel the pressure to attend. Not often, but sometimes. Despite being armed with the simple truth that playgroups suck in my humble opinion, there are times when that little thing called Mother Guilt comes a-banging on my door, and I feel I must answer her call.

The next thing you know I'm bundling up my poor girl and trudging over to go to a playgroup at some random person's house (from a posting on a local parents message board for an open playgroup that afternoon) who I don't know and probably won't like very much. I don't mean to be harsh but as time passes and seems to actually speed up as I'm advancing in age, time is my most valuable commodity and so whom I choose to spend my time with is of utmost importance. Why then would I ever actually choose to sit crossed-legged on the floor of some strangers' house, not being offered a morsel of food or a drop of water, rather than visit with a cherished single friend or have another visit with dear old Grandma? Mostly I blame those damn parent magazines that get me reeling in the first place, all those stories and blurbs specifically designed to make you feel guilty and inferior at every turn. Seriously, my kid eats organic food much of the time, never watches TV, has jazz and classical music playing softly in the background every day and yet still there might be the simplest little line in a magazine about the importance of interacting with other tiny people of similar age and it will get me thinking that somehow my child is not being properly socialized and it's all my fault. Because honestly, when you think about it, how long can a reasonable person continue to delude herself that staying at home all day with her thirteen-month-old, dancing our asses off to Confessions on a Dance Floor (I love you, Madonna) can somehow pass for one of those fancy Music & Me classes?

So every once in a great blue moon, I find myself smack in the middle of a mommy playgroup with a bunch of random mothers and babies of varying ages, when a wave of recognition floods over me that yes indeed these groups really do suck. They're no fun for anyone including my thirteen-month-old daughter whose only desire is to press down on a four-month-old's head just because his face is funny or squishy and feels nice or whatever her reasoning is. And she's totally bummed that I'm stopping her. I swear that I've seen a passing look on her face that says something like "Mom, please. Let's get outta here, head on back home to Madonna dancing and call it day. This party stinks and you know it." (I realize this might seem implausible since she's so young but if my girl is anything she's super expressive.) It's either that, or I spend way too much time alone, lacking sufficient adult interaction thereby having to resort to projecting greater meaning onto my toddler's simplest mannerisms.

So anyway, back to the playgroup. Just as I'm politely waiting for a lull in the forced conversation, silently concocting my escape plan, there inevitably comes that moment when one of the moms makes a seemingly innocuous comment. Perhaps it's a newbie Mom, an innocent who truly doesn't know any better, but singlehandedly she cracks open the seal, the floodgates burst forth and spill all over the parquet living room floor.

What I'm talking about is when one mom comes out with a doozy like "I dunno, I just feel so, um, inadequate sometimes....like, why can't I get little Caleb-Cody-Dashiell-Whoever to sleep and my husband can? I mean, I'm his Mom and I just feel so, uh, like I should be able to do it, like what's wrong with me?" And then like a pack of wild hyenas who have just found their prey, all the others join in, clawing and gnawing away with all sorts of deep confessions and/or rantings. And no matter where the conversation started, it could have been about solving sleep issues or how to switch to a sippy cup, eventually it comes to this: "And geez, what ever happened to having a sex life, right ladies?" A collective ha-ha-ha. As if it's not bad enough that I'm not getting any at home, but I'm supposed to now laugh it off with a bunch of other sex-starved, sleep-deprived mommies. Mental note to self: Cancel Parents magazine. And New Year Resolution #1: No More Playgroups in 2008.

I suppose all of these true confessions come forth as an effort to feel connected with Moms Like Me. But really it only serves to push me further away and I just want to high tail it out of there, buy a large pizza and a tub of Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream and go gorge myself. Anything would be better than having to have the I'm So Uncertain of My Mothering Skills talk. I just hate it. And I'm not very good at when it really comes down to it. This of course now leads me to my dirty little secret. The one that I've secretly held even while my girl Ol' Soph was still in utero. Perhaps it's the only thing that I truly know for sure about myself.

I'm a damn good mom. Period.

What?! Did I just say that outloud (well, type it)? I know what you're thinking. But really, I think I'm pretty darn good at what I do. In fact, no job I've ever had in my whole life has ever suited my skill set better than being a Mom. Plus I love my boss, she's super cool and funny and really smart and kind of kooky but in a good way and...well, I could go on and on about her but I digress. Back to my original point here, which is that I really love my job and I think I do it very well. I realize that this is such blasphemy to be so certain and secure in this age of inappropriate confessions on television and questioning every single move we make as parents, but it's just how I feel.

Lest you think that the author here has a split personality, I think most parents would agree that even the most secure among us has her moments of weakness, when doubt comes creeping on in, an uninvited guest but there he is. I'm wondering now if perhaps what I need is a Playgroup Sponsor, someone to call when I'm feeling particularly weak and might resort to using. Someone who will listen to my yearnings (But Sophia needs interaction with other children her age) and then gently remind me that there's another way: Honey, go live your life. Meet a friend. Go out for a cup of coffee. Hell, meet a friend for a cup of coffee. Take a walk. Go shopping. Visit the library, the zoo, a museum, you know do whatever you like to do.

Finally, along these lines, I heard an acquaintance once say that you don't have to sucuumb to only baby-friendly activities once you have a kid. In fact, he said, you just bring the wee one into the fold. That's right, just fold them right into your life. Now, that's more like it.