Sunday, September 17, 2006

In which I ponder play-dates.

I don’t often attend social situations typically labeled “play-dates” because my head falls short of exploding after hearing super mom Jenny force her precious Timmy to recite the alphabet in Spanish within earshot of everybody else nine times. Or when the mommies huddle together with their non-fat double lattes and discuss the reasons why attachment parenting and extended breast-feeding have produced the next virtuoso violinist or advanced algebra prodigy. Watching them parade themselves and their children around out of, what I can only conclude to be, boredom and a lack of self-confidence, makes me want to snatch up my dirty-faced toddler and my styrofoam cup of primo dunkin’ donuts coffee and bolt home. Yes your child is beautiful and smart, and yes you are a good parent. Get over it already, let your child play in the mud puddle and sit on the park benches gabbing about the size of your ass like normal mothers.

Glad I got that off my chest.

Recently, I thought I had found a diamond in the rough, an odd duck like me, another mother who doesn’t mind that her child would rather get dirty on the play equipment than stand at her heels regurgitating the Pythagorean Theorem. We’ve hung out a few times and let our kids run ahead on the nature trail as we hung back, talking about our tattoos and our favorite music. Southern rock? Me too! ::squeal:: A black panther on your ankle? How cool, I know somebody who could draw that for you. The play “dates” were always fun and, ironically, her son and my daughter were boyfriend/girlfriend in kindergarten. Awwww…. Our kids get a long, we jive and I’m digging this whole play-date thing after all.

I reckon I tripped over a bright red flag this afternoon as we were walking out of the woods back into the park. We were yakking on about little boys and how they learn best when in motion when suddenly, she picked up a stick, whipped me square on the ass and winked at me. I yelped at first because, shit, it stung. I don’t remember the last time I got whipped. Wait, yes I do, but that wasn’t my fault because I didn’t realize the punch was spiked and I thought it was SKIPPING contest. I digress. I wanted to ask her why the hell she just assaulted my butt with such obvious lust, but she kept on talking about the kids without skipping a beat. I bit my lip the entire walk, directed my children to the van and made a bee-line for my husband. “Honey, I think my new best mommy friend wants to make me her bitch.” I absentmindedly told him. He smirked.

Why can’t I find any normal mothers to play with?


Blogger Amanda said...

Answer: because all the cool mommies live 3 hours south.

Answer #2: because you live in a part of the country that most Americans think is Canada.

Answer #3: because you're so sexy all the acid-wash aquanet buck-toothed inbred drama queens can't keep thier hands off you.


10:39 AM  
Blogger R said...

I can't argue with you on #1 and #2, and oddly enough, she does wear tapered jeans (not the suddenly cool again skinny ones either), hi-top sneakers and has a really bad perm. Although I'm really in no position to say one word about bad perms. I was my poodle's long-lost mother in my 3rd trimester. You weren't lucky enough to get a real-life look at that mess, pity.

11:33 AM  

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