Okay, so the fish for dinner is more important than my children…

Well, what else can I think? Yes, another post about my poor mother. Golly Whiskers, I hope I am not like her when I grow up and become a Grandma! And this story has eight witnesses, six of which are under the age of three, but never mind. Here goes.

I had a few people over, kind of like an impromptu playgroup, one afternoon. We enjoyed a few refreshments together and the six children had ice cream. The resulting mess on my kitchen floor was quite spectacular and I knew I would have to mop. Just as the ladies and gents were about to leave, the front door opened and my mother walked in.

“Hi, darling! I have that park bench that needs assembling and I brought one for you to have as well. Would you help me drag it out of the car?”

Of course I helped her with the bench and came back into the house as everyone was about to leave. The mommies had done a great job in helping me tidy and load the dishwasher, but the floor was my own thing to deal with; we all knew it. I mean, ya just can’t mop a floor with children around. Any attempt would have just spread the ice cream infested mud more evenly over the entire kitchen and then nothing would have been clean.

So, I asked my mother, “Would you be so kind as to keep an eye on the boys in the tub for ten minutes? That way I can mop the floor without them and it can dry while I bathe them. Just getting tubby time started would help me out big time.”

She says, “I would if I could, but I must get back to the office and I need to stop at the fish shop before it closes. Bye!”

Off she went, leaving me to figure it out. What I actually did was put one baby in the tub with the water on a slow trickle to amuse him and the drain open. I also put a towel on the floor because I knew he would dump a lot of water over the side unless there was someone around to stop him. The other baby wanted to be held, so I quickly mopped the floor with the baby on my hip and checked on the destruction in the bathroom a few times during the process. I knew the baby in the bath would be okay on his own because I took the stopper out of the drain completely so the water couldn’t accumulate even a tiny bit. Mopping whilst holding a wriggling toddler...talk about making a chore a chore…

And my friends got to see how in my family, the fish comes first.

Hey, little two year old! You are getting FAT!

At the playgroup there are a few fathers who are the stay home part of their partnerships. Most of the fathers are cool and all that, and one dad in particular has struck me as being very cool indeed. And then there is one father who just rubs me the wrong way. He seems kind of creepy. He makes a sickly sweet point of greeting each child by name with a “I’m so clever to remember each and every one of these twenty five children’s names” voice, at every playgroup. He never sticks around to help tidy up afterwards and he seems to be overbearing to his daughter. But more than that, it’s a comment he made one time. I know, I know... one remark, overheard one time, does not mean he says stuff like it all the time, but I wonder.

The comment was, “Daughter! Come here! Don’t hang around the snack table! We don’t want you to grow up and be 200 pounds now, do we?”

Nice Dad! Nice way to get an eating disorder established! Um, news flash! Girls are freaking sensitive! Next time, you should just tell her that those footie pyjamas make her look fat, and really get her started. Number one, she is hanging around the snack table because, all the other kids are there, number two, it’s 11:00 in the morning and she might actually be, umm...hungry and number three, hello! People, this child is only TWO AND A HALF. Besides, she's so thin her little neck can barely support her head, which trembles like a daisy on a stem. It makes me wonder what some people are thinking.

A few weeks later it was 200 pound Dad's turn to bring snacks. When I saw him heading towards the infamous snack table, I got all worried. My children are excellent trenchermen as a rule, and I let them enjoy as many healthy snacks as they so desire. As long as they are hydrogenated fat free, high fructose corn syrup free and egg free as well. No, I'm not totally insane, one of the twins has allergies. Anyway, I saw Big Daddy with a bag of "Snacks" and I thought, "Oh dear. Since he hates food so much, we'll be lucky to get a glass of water and a dog biscuit each."

Actually, he brought grapes.

You think I'm too harsh? Who, me?

Ok, so I wrote a thing for the official Mother of Twins on line news magazine because the editor asked me to. She reads my blog and likes what she reads and thought a special article by yours truly, The MOT, would be fun and educational. I got to work, wrote a little thing about how my MIL is always there for me and how my own M is a shot in the dark as far as availability and helpfulness is concerned, and guess what? The editor who approached me liked it, and said she could relate, but her fellow people-in-charge did not.

Well, they liked the writing and the idea, but thought the tone was a bit harsh for their audience. The editor asked me to rework the piece to make it less negative. I am ever one to please, so I watered it down and sent it back, but golly gee willikers! A little story about how my mother’s emotional detachment can be depressing is too harsh for the audience? An audience consisting of over-tired, over-wrought and over-worked mothers of twins? The tone was too negative for my fellow twin mothers, the people who can best relate to how I feel? You know, alone and exhausted and upset that your own mother can’t come over and help out when you need her? If the truth is too “harsh” what would be appropriate? A lighthearted piece full of alliteration and exclamation points on how making a To-do List can help a busy mom make Less of a To-do over what she needs to accomplish in a day? Or a little story about the joy I feel in the twin twinkles in my twins’ eyes? Here’s a header for you: Ten Top Twin Tips: A Manic Mom shares her secrets to Minimizing Mayhem! Or how’s this: It’s Pedicure Time! Treat your tired Toes to this Trio of Treats!

Ok Ok, I know the on-line news magazine is not that silly. I have read some good stuff there; the Notebook is not of the same ilk as Parenting Magazine or American Baby, or any of those other ridiculous, myth-perpetuating perky publications. (Ooh! Alliteration!) I have read a few pieces in the Notebook, which is written and produced as part of the National Organization of Mothers of Twins Clubs, the nationwide support group for parents of twins and higher order multiples. Yes, there is a support group out there for MOTs, and since the universe recognizes we need support, why is the truth too much to hear? Isn’t a story on how mothers of singletons just don’t seem to get it a reminder of why MOTs need a support group of their own? Isn’t an article addressing how hurtful hands-off family members can be actually addressing some of the reasons the National Organization of Mothers of Twins Clubs exists?

This reminds me of a story I told in a previous post, about the "president" of my local/former Mothers of Twins Club. I told this woman I didn’t want to be part of that particular club anymore because I did not feel I was getting any support from the group. I also needed to free up the evening to pursue other, more nourishing activities. She was pretty mad about that, I guess she has driven other mothers away, not just me, and started asking me about the kind of support I needed and what support I was getting at home and if my DH was supportive, etc. Well, y'all know from this blog that my DH is like a La Perla brassiere; attractive, supportive and plain old fun to have around. But, she doesn’t know that, because she doesn’t know me. She kept asking, and she was being pushy about it, so I said, "Well, I never felt like anyone in the club would have come by and give me a hand on those days when I wated to drink a gallon of bleach and explode into tiny pieces." Or something like that.

Well. She interpreted that as a suicide threat and called her friend the SOCIAL WORKER and she called my DH at WORK and got herself all in a lather. Anyone who knows me knows how I speak and knows that I like to/tend to make wild remarks. (I mean, who really explodes into tiny pieces? I mean, really!) Anyone who knows me at all, knows that’s just the way I am. She totally proved my point that even after 16 MONTHS of seeing me two or three times a month, she still has NO CLUE who I am and what I am all about! The thing she said that really got my blood boiling - ooh! Get the extinguisher! Her blood is on fire! - she said, " If you are going to cry “Wolf”, you have to expect someone to take you seriously." Hello?! Cry “Wolf”? I was NOT crying wolf or coyote or prairie dog or any other animal of the sort! I was telling her I have had days when I was going nuts and I would rather hang out with intelligent people who can sympathize than go to a meeting run by someone like her, who obviously thinks it’s best NOT to say what you think/feel/need and want. Heavens above, that “president” is the type of person who perpetuates the poisonous parenting myth. (I was going to put poisonous parenting problem, to keep up the alliteration thing, but it didn’t make much sense. Oh well.) Yes, that “president”, by putting me under pressure to press my problems into the pavement (Heyyyy, nice use of the letter P, MOT…Thanks, Alter Ego.) would just make it worse. If I thought telling some one about my troubles would mean a social worker would descend upon my family, I wouldn’t say anything. Now isn’t the first rule of a support group, especially a recognized nationwide support group, to provide…um…SUPPORT? Doesn’t that mean listening and being there and trying to help people help themselves? Or is a support group there just so a mother of NINE YEAR OLD twins can tell a mother of 18 month old twins that when they say, gee, I feel like I am going nuts over here, that they are crying "Wolf"? Stupid cow; I hope I never see her again; I might not be able to suppress my desire to tell her just how mad I was that day.

I have received a few comments on the blog from the editor of the Notebook who approached me for the article, and I can tell she belongs to “my club” of MOTs – the types who say it like it is and can hear it too. I hope my thing gets put in the Notebook, those of us who aren’t afraid of vocalizing our hopes and fears and failures and triumphs and setbacks and breakthroughs need to be heard! I know my fellow MOTs and, for that matter, MOSs (Mothers of Singletons) and MO3U3s (Mothers of Three under Three) MO4U4 (Mothers of Four under Four) and MORSBCB (Mothers of Really Sweet but Colicky Babies) and on and on can relate to my nutty situation and me. Mothering is a trip – the better we get at our children’s' needs and wants, the smarter they get right back at us. It’s enough to make ya crazy – oops! I really didn’t mean that! Don’t call the Social Worker on me! Under my negative exterior, I really am a happy person.

Dear Notebook editor – I hope you know what I mean by this post. I would be thrilled to be in your publication, and I do understand I can’t just burst in there, guns blazing. But on my blog…I fire away!

At the gym

The other day at the gym, when I was in the locker room, I had neglected to position myself so I could not see myself in the mirrors. As a result, I got an eyeful of the Tiger Flap and thought Icky! Gross! Eww! and then I got mad. I know, I know; such negativity can be emotionally harmful and never leads to anything good and you can't love anyone if you can't love yourself..blah blah blah. I think I am smart, funny, and articulate, I know how to cook, eat and dress BUT I do not love the skin over my belly.

That said, back to the little story. I had an ick moment and made a comment to the other person in the locker room at the time.

Me - MAN, if I had known what those babies would do to me, I might not have had them.
Person - Oh, you can't say that.
Me - What do you mean? Are you saying that I had seen this, I would not have thought twice about bearing progeny?
Person - You would have had them anyway, you can't say you wouldn't have wanted them.
Me - Yes, I can say it. At this moment, in this mirror at this point of my existence, I think this utter destruction of my beauty was not worth it!
Person- Oh, that's not bad at all! You can't say that it is.
Me - getting really annoyed- Why can't I say it?! I'm the one living in the skin!
Person - Oh, ha ha!
Me - Uhgh!!

The Tiger Flap

Yesterday I hung out with a pal, who, like me, has two cats. One of her cats has that flap of fatty skin hanging below his belly, which is also called an apron. She was petting him and mourning the fact he wasn’t as sleek as he could be. I pointed out that a lot of wild cats, like cheetahs and lions and tigers, have that apron too.

I said I think it’s there so the tiger can expand comfortably after he consumes two wildebeest for dinner and half an antelope for dessert. Our domestic cats get this apron too, some from being fat, some from pregnancy and others, like the Egyptian Mau, have the belly flap as a genetic trademark of the breed. So we were talking about the cats’ aprons and I said – That’s what I am going to call my belly skin now; The Tiger Flap. It sounds a lot better than saying that icky-saggy-stretch-marked-belly-fat-I-hate. It’s quicker and cleverer too, and I just looove simultaneous speed and intelligence in a gal!

Later in the day we were discussing our DHs. Like me, she has two children, and we both are professionally licensed stay at home mothers. There we were, in a bar at 4:30 in the afternoon, drinking champagne, talking about our husbands and their careers. I commented that my husband was doing quite well for working in a very new field. She commented that her husband has another few years of fellowship before he can get involved in his real career as a research and development guy. Both our families are quite young, and both our husbands are in progress as far as work is concerned.

I said, ‘Yes, your DH is on target and mine is in the 75% percentile for weight and career growth.”

After a few glasses of bubby we thought that was just hilarious.

Why do I do this?

I have a friend with whom I have an on-line friendship. We IM each other from time to time and read each other’s blogs/journals. She has twin toddlers as well and by now I am quite sure she knows I am talking about her! We have had some of the same experiences in raising our children and some very different ones and we both love books and writing. She has “said” (“said” is in quotes because the fact that our conversations are done via Instant Messaging means I more accurately put “typed”, but that looks so awkward. Yeah, and a laborious explanation is not awkward… whatever.) She has said a few things with which I have disagreed and I know I have said some things that have made her roll her eyes. This is why I think we are friends; we both understand we each have the right ideas for our different families.

That stated, once, during an IM conversation, I mentioned I might have something in an on-line magazine soon, and how I was just so thrilled about that. She asked if I wanted to be a Writer when I grew up. I responded that I am never going to grow up, so I don’t worry about it. Kidding! No, I said, yes, and blogging/journaling on line is a way for me to practice and work things out. She said that she must be the only blogger who doesn’t really want to be published.

Because I read too much into thing, I felt diminished right away. I know is was not her intent by her remark, but I instantly thought, “Gosh, am I just another Carrie Bradshaw wannabe and am I a hopeless case at that? Does she think I am some kind of loser for trying to be a stay at home mother/writer and wanting to join the other 15 million stay at home mothers/writers floating around the universe? She must see me as a sad sack, I am a sad sack…boo hoo I’ll never do anything worthwhile…” and then I ate a whole pint of Cherry Garcia. No, actually that really got me thinking, “Why do I post my little roller coaster on line? Why do I need to blog? Do I still feel a lack of attention? Do I still think I can write? Do I really feel I am interesting, or do I do it more for myself and to have a record of these early, crazy days, like somekeep a Baby Journal?”

Then I started reading Bird by Bird, by Anne Lamott. A friend gave me a copy, just out of the blue, because she is such a sweet person, and after I had read a few dozen pages, I felt that Anne was speaking to ME. She writes about becoming a writer, about her journey and she asks the same questions I have been asked and that I ask myself – why does one write and for whom?

Here is a quote from the book:

The thrill of seeing oneself in print…provides some sort of primal verification: you are in print; therefore you exist. Who knows what this urge is all about, to appear somewhere outside yourself, instead of feeling stuck inside your muddled but stroboscopic mind…You can get so much attention without having to actually show up somewhere. There are many obvious advantages to this. You don’t have to dress up, for instance, and you can’t hear them boo you right away.

Hearing the boos and hisses much later is what I love about Blog Spot. If I see a comment that is totally and unnecessarily wounding, I can delete it. If someone feels they need to call me up and pour vitriol and poison down the line, and ignore me for months, fine by me. BUT, I wrote what I wrote for a reason; I needed to vent, to explain, to create, to try, to fail and midstream heckling most likely would have stopped me in my literary tracks. That’s the magic of on-line for me.

There is also the fact that if I wrote it, and posted it, I can prove I had the idea first. I hate hate hate it when people steal my ideas, or seem to not listen to me, then turn around and try to pass it off as their own. I recently read something that another mommy blogger wrote about an experience that she made out to be unique to her situation. The fact that I have an entry all about the exact same thing (and I even recognized a few of my phrases) posted months ago. This settles my mind. It is totally obvious that her last week was my last June, so I’m okay with that. Instead of seething over the intellectual theft, I can reflect on how so many new mothers go through so many of the same ordeals/trails/experiences, and in the same order too.

But what really made me sit up and look around was the “primal verification” thing. Anne writes that writing is its own reward, which I find to be true for me, and that the attention one can receive as a by-product is a very happy accident. According to the Site Meter I added to this journal, I have had several thousand hits since the middle of December. Part of my mind thinks, “My, so many!” The other, more real part, thinks, “Why so few? This is good stuff here!” Yes, I admit to being hungry for attention and needy as far as an audience is concerned, and that is part of me being me, and I happen to like that about myself. I like it a lot, actually, and I have made some good friends through being brazen and honest. I have lost one friend from speaking my mind, and another potential friendship never really happened for kind of the same reason. (Well, it was more that in life there are the members of the audience and the players on the stage. I like to be on stage and I really can share the spotlight very well. Just ask the gorgeous woman who gave me the Anne Lamott book – she and I have frolicked on stage together a few times. BUT this other person needed to keep me firmly as an admirer and quietly in my seat. After a year or two of this, I decided, nope, it’s boring listening to her gassing on about her “fabulous” life. The MOT doesn’t need to be put in her place; she can be pretty cool. And Nick Rhodes thinks I have lovely skin too, so, ha.)

So the next time I IM my lovely on-line pal, I will ask her if she’s read Bird by Bird. If she has, groovy! I can let her know someone else has explained why I am doing this writing thing, and has explained it well. If she hasn’t, I suggest it. After all, Anne is the one who has written so eloquently about why someone like me feels compelled to spill their guts on paper, not me, and I don’t want to try to pass off her ideas as my own. ‘Coz I hate that.

Second time around

Second children, and/or second pregnancies, are like marriage after a divorce; it's the triumph of hope over reason.

Last night my twins fell asleep at 8:00 and 8:30 and then woke up again at 11:00 and 11:30. I nursed them one at a time, them together until about 2:00, and then I gave up. We all got out of bed; the DH included, and gave them a snack. They devoured a whole banana each (Aha! They were hungry!) and ran around a bit turning lights on and off. (Aha! They were bored!) The DH then took them for a ride in the car; they were quite cute about it, chatting and laughing in their car seats, in anticipation of an outing...at THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING. While they were out I did some ironing, rolled out some croissants for a party and had a snack myself.

Then they came home, woke up almost immediately, started screaming and had another nursing frenzy until about 5:30. (Aha! They were thirsty!) THEN they fell asleep (Aha! They were tired!) until 7:30 and ate a huge breakfast. (Aha! They were hungry!)

I got about ZERO hours of sleep, the DH had about the same, and as a result I was somewhat zombiefied at the playgroup today. (Yes, I went to the playgroup. There was no way I was going to stay home with two unpredictable beasties after no sleep. The playground offers more scope for distraction than an exhausted grouchy mama alone in a house. ) They had a great time on the slide, they each had a snack and a meltdown and both fell asleep in the car en route home. (Aha! They have no idea what they want!)

After a few cups of coffee and a bowl of soup I feel okay, but still a bit shaky and worn out. Last night, as I lay dying, I kept thinking about all my friends who are having second and third children, who are expecting twins, who want bigger families and who seem happy about it. Are they effing nuts? Why else would anyone willing enter a situation that entails late night torture at the hands of a merciless toddler? What part of the sleepless night/messy house/ destroyed body/grey haired/wrinkled face present makes someone want to reproduce it at a future date?

Back when I was a know it all/self-righteous pregnant person, I couldn't imagine wanting to go for a walk without my precious babies in tow as well. Now I can't imagine hanging on to my precious sanity with my babies in tow as well.

Who do I have to f**k to get some sleep around here? Anyone? Anyone? Beuller? And don't suggest the DH; he’s too wrung out to consider anything more strenuous than a BJ.

And he might fall asleep on me at that...

The backstage pass

On Sunday I went to the Duran Duran concert at a local venue with some friends, my sister and her husband. My DH stayed at home to take care of the babies. He also said he had no interest in seeing a teenage girl crush band, so the ticket would have been wasted on him. I am actually a little glad he didn’t come, because my friend, from the playgroup, who was my date that night, is a great person to go to a concert with.

Our seats were somewhat far away from the stage, in the nosebleed section, but the venue is quite small and intimate, so we could see pretty well. However, my friend, who is even bolder than I am, said, “Let’s go down to the front! There’s nothing to lose.” I agreed, and off we went. We just walked up to the doors leading to the floor seats, and she started talking to a security guard. As he was busy filling his eyes and being flirted with, I just walked right on in. Ha ha! About two minutes later, she comes strolling on in and up to the stage we went. It was fantastic! We were just ten feet from the stage as they played Notorious and Wild Boys and Rio. I got all over excited, and even though I knew I would get to meet him backstage later, when Simon came out into the crowd, I hopped up on a chair and patted him on the back. I was standing on a folding chair at the time, and as I leaned over, the chair folded up, but a nice gay man caught me. How do I know he is gay? Well, I said “Oh! Thanks for the catch! I just want to touch him, you know?” He replied, “Okay, you first, then I want a feel.” Heh heh heh. So, I got to pet Mr. LeBon on the back and I got to see myself in my red plastic jacket on the Jumbotron!

After the show, I met up with my DS at Section 17, as we had been instructed and we waited and waited and waited. The people in charge of the meet and greet were bringing group after group through to the dressing rooms, but kept saying, “All of you with the green passes just wait here.” I found out from a couple of hard core groupies, who had been to about six concerts on the tour, that the green passes were the "best", because we would see them last, as opposed to the other passes, which just meant a quick handshake and then you were hustled out the door.

About 45 minutes later, the green pass people were ushered into a dressing room, with sodas and sofas. We were each given a special poster, in case we had forgotten to bring something to have signed, and then…ba DUM! Simon LeBon came in the door.

I must say the next fifteen minutes were a bit of a blur; the rest of the band came in, a girl launched herself on Simon and gave him a prolonged hug, which he obviously did not want to receive. I spoke to Andy first, got his autograph and a picture, then took a picture of my sister with Roger, who was her favorite. Simon had been my favorite back in my Duranie days, but he was obviously tired; he was lying down on the coffee table. Not wanting to bother him, I looked around and said “Hi” to Nick instead. Nick stopped and said, “That’s a lovely shiny jacket!” and I said, “I know…” Yikes, was that cocky or what? But he seemed to find that funny, and stayed and chatted with me for a while. We were off to one side and I asked if I could get a photo with him. “Of course!” he said and I looked around for the DS to get the picture. But she was somewhere else, so he said, “Oh, let me take our picture. Ready?” He put his hand on my back, leaned in close and snapped away. I told him he looked great and asked him what face cream he used, he said, “I use whatever I can get me hands on, I’m not fussy. But I moisturize twice a day and avoid the sun. I never go in the sun. Why are you worried? You’ve got lovely skin.” I told him my age, he was pleasantly disbelieving and we had a nice talk about skin cream for a while. Then someone pulled him away and someone else put a video camera in my face.

“Tell me,” he asked, “What did you think of the concert? How long have you been a fan? If you could sum up the show in one word, what would it be?” I answered his questions, gassed on for a while, then I took some more photos, and got the other guys to sign the Rio album I had brought along for the occasion. I don’t have any of my old records anymore; I had the misfortune to have all my Duran Duran and Adam Ant and David Bowie and Roxy Music albums destroyed in a fire in 1992. However, a woman I know had a daughter recently, who she named Rio. I went on eBay and bought a Rio album, which I was going to present to the baby. I told this to her mother, who said, “Oh, my husband is going to buy a record and have it framed.” Since I hate to be redundant, I didn’t give away my album, I just put it away. I never thought I would be going to a concert and getting it signed by Simon, Nick, John, Andy and Roger just a few months later. Sometimes things work out so well…Later I told the DS that I had been interviewed about the show while we were backstage, and she said that the band had their own cameraman who was making a video of the tour. I would be simply delighted to be on that video; my, my, red plastic seems to get a lot of attention, doesn’t it?!

Later, on the way home, I told my playgroup buddy/date all about the experience and she oohed and ahhed in all the appropriate places. Thanks to the fact the pictures are on a digital camera, we could look at them immediately; we giggled and yip yapped all the way home. We were both a little wired. She got home by 1 and I was home by1:30, but I really wasn’t able to sleep until 2.

Then, at 2:05, Baby A woke up. “Mama!” he cried, and since I had not nursed them for about 10 hours at this point, I was all too happy to respond. Isn’t it funny how life runs the gamut from the mundane to the super cool? There I was, at 11:30 PM talking to rock musicians, and three hours later, I am snuggling with an 18-month old nursling, who couldn’t care less who I met, with whom I took a picture and where I have been. About half an hour later Baby B woke up, and he needed his mama too. There I was, in my usual spot, trapped between two babies, for the rest of the night. Game over, MOT!

But I could still hear Girls on Film, in a loop, in my head.

Duran Duran

Yes, that is a picture of me on the internet. And yes, that is Nick Rhodes. I'll post the full story when I get a chance.  

Stages, Phases and Maturity. And that's just for me...

As well as my lovely playgroups, I belong to a library club, which meets in a town about thirty minutes away from me. I go to this library instead of my local one, because one, this one is free, (and we LOVE free stuff) and two, because there is a groovy chick and mother of two who goes there too. We like to chitchat as the babies race around and then we sometimes go get a pizza afterwards.

The other day I overheard two of the mothers discussing gift ideas for a little three year old who also goes to the club. She was not there that day, and the two mothers were asking each other what they were going to bring to the party and what their girls should wear, etc. I asked, “Oh, is it little Portia’s birthday soon? Is Monica going to have a party?” One mother looked a little funny and said, “Oh, yes, the party is this weekend.” I immediately thought, “Well, golly gee, where’s MY invitation?” and felt inexplicably wounded.

Well, hello, I have 18-month-old boys, who aren’t particularly close to the birthday child, all the invitees are little girls, and I am not especially buddy buddy with Mrs. Monica either. So why should I feel all Junior High School about not being invited? I guess it’s just one of those weird dynamics that happen in any group or club; people will form little cliques within each club, and there really isn’t much anyone can do about it. I myself am in a little clique of me and one other mother in one of the playgroups; we talk every other day, at least, and I actually felt weird NOT calling her over the past holiday weekend, even though there really wasn’t any time to do so. In the other playgroup, I have three “special pals”, and we all tend to congregate around each other and talk at the top of our lungs.

One of these pals, the one who said it’s like Junior High sometimes, was wounded in turn to discover she wasn’t invited to this other party, for another little one, that I attended over two weeks ago. My big trap and I let it out that I had gone to a Gymboree Playtime Place Party and how it was such fun, and how I ran out for a fruit tray and felt all useful and needed, and blah blah. She asked, “When was this?” I said blithely, “Oh, it was for Gwendolyn’s party…eeeek.” Holy Cow, I didn’t even think she may have wanted to go. So then I had to explain how the mother was totally limited as to the number of children she could invite and how the birthday girl wanted to have her chums from her day care and this mother was one of the very first mothers I met in the state with whom I could talk about how difficult this mothering gig can be…my pal gave me a look that said, “I would have rather not known about this.” Whoops.

The great thing about the playgroup world is that everyone knows a little bit about everyone, and we can all celebrate birthdays and other special events together. The bad thing is that everyone knows a little bit about everyone. Such as, when these birthdays occur, and whether there is a party or not, and we need to realize we can’t have everyone over for every party every time. I wonder when I will get to the stage when it’s okay not to be invited? I wonder when I’ll get to the point where I am less “refreshingly open” about what I've been up to? I wonder when I will no longer be a teeny bit hurt if not everyone likes me all the time? I wonder when I’ll follow my boys’ example, and commence with the growing up?

George, any idea?