Today is Friday and that means gymnastics for second son and the little lady. They love it. I love it. That, along with four day preschool, have been the two best decisions I have made so far this year. Little lady and I take a mommy and me class while second son takes a class with his peers. It’s great.
Today there was a newcomer, and while I hold nothing against the mother personally, I really hope she doesn’t come back. Is that mean? Maybe, but that’s not my intention. The woman seemed nice enough (as she checked her phone for the fourteenth time), but I just couldn’t listen to the phrase, “she’s usually not like this,” in reference to her cute little daughter, one more time. I felt like saying, like what? Like a three year old? In fact, the mother seemed so busy explaining to everyone what her child usually wasn’t like, she kind of missed what the child was doing, which was having fun.
Maybe I’m being a bit too judgmental, but you know what? I’m over apologizing for my kids for being kids. Been there, done that. Which is probably why this mother bothered me so much, I was her. I, like the newcomer, was moving from young mother of one, to older, harried mother of two. I was living in Florida and new to a mother’s group that I joined definitely more for me than for first son. Not only was I an outsider, but my son was often the lone male, surrounded by a sea of well groomed two year old girls, and well, he just didn’t want to play with them. But being the stellar mother that I am, I took him to playgroup after playgroup so that I could talk to other adults.
It was during this time that we were invited to a playgroup party at a “friend’s” house. It was at this party that first son decided to freak out for no reason. In hindsight, he probably had some good reasons for screaming non-stop like a top-notch B actor. He had a newly diagnosed tree nut allergy, a neurotic mother hovering, a new baby brother, girls stealing his balloons, and most importantly, the fact that he did NOT want to be there. In his mind, it was probably the perfect storm. However, at the time, all of this eluded me, so it didn’t matter. What mattered, was that I couldn’t make him stop. To say I was embarrassed is an understatement of gross proportions. To say the other mother’s were kind to me about the situation, would be another exaggeration of gross proportions. We left shortly after that, me sweating and embarrassed, the sweat thing being the recurring motif to every Florida story. South Florida is hot.
So, I’ve been there. I was that mother. The “I don’t understand. He’s usually not like this. I don’t know what happened. He didn’t have a good nap,” mother. Why, because I was embarrassed that my kid was just being a kid? Kids are weird. They do weird things. Adults are weird, too. Do my kids still embarrass me? On a regular basis, but at a gymnastics class? Not anymore.