When I first became immersed in modern parenting culture, I shuddered at the notion of "playdates" and "playgroups." Why the rotating schedule? Why the detailed organization? Why all the hugging and muffins? Why bother?
I learned quickly, though, that the house becomes a prison, the park gets old and it’s easy to overspend at Target when you’re going there three times a week just to kill time.
I have embraced the playgroup ever since.
Still, I find them to be an imperfect solution, these weekly playgroups. In the same way you can’t choose your own family, playgroups are a crapshoot. You take what you can get. And what you get, I realized (after belonging to thousands in three different cities with two different kids), is pretty much the same. In blog format, I present you with the playgroup prototype:
This is the mom behind every playgroup. She’s the one who reaches out, invites you in, and reminds everyone of the details -- this week’s location, theme and snack provider. She’s awfully busy and not always interesting. But she’s where you start.
Then there’s this mom: the attention hog. Her voice is a little louder than everyone else’s, and there’s a good chance she won’t talk to you. She believes she’s very funny, and she sometimes is. You feel immediately exhausted whenever she shows up and a little let down when she doesn't.
There’s also this mom, the most popular. You don’t know what the big deal is – she looks normal, she sounds normal. Still, you watch her too. You feel the fizzy bubbles of jealousy surface now and again when you see everyone huddled around her, looking after her kid, listening to her vacation stories. You’re relieved each time she mentions her medications. You notice right away when she's gone.
Around this mom, you just feel dumb. Big, stupid, oafish, offensive and dumb. You replay the conversations you have with her over and over in your mind, looking for anything that might have been misconstrued as racist or insensitive or, god forbid, a small-minded display of your white privilege. You kick yourself for mentioning your daughter’s straight, blond hair.
Here’s the mom who talks endlessly about fertility issues. You love the gory details, you nod sympathetically at the masked pain. You feel a little shitty for being pregnant and hope that you'll move again before it becomes obvious.
Of course, there's the one you have a mom crush on. Her stories are tied up nicely in big, tight, raffia bows. But you read between the lines, and you see the rage, the impatience, the lack of control, the self-loathing. She's writing your life, pretty much. But your kids don't come across nearly as deep.
And don’t forget about the dad, the token guy. He shows up once, sits in the corner with his daughter and her juice box and never, ever comes back. Was it the fertility mom's ease in discussing cervical mucus? Maybe the anti-racist's bit about white male domination. Who knows. But you come back, again and again, dreading it before, bitching about it after, scrolling down your bookmarks week after week, getting out, checking in, staying connected.
