Playgroup allergy

I’d heard about them before and they sounded pretty awful: bored housewives who get together to teach their wrangy children how not to steal each other’s toys. (“Jacob, what did I tell you about sharing?” they’ll say in that naggy mom voice that I’m sure I myself am slowly inheriting.)

“You shouldn’t be so judgmental,” says Mommy Ventura over the phone. “Aren’t you a bored housewife?”

Damn best friends and their astute observations.

“Well yes, but I don’t think the commiseration of others is going to do me any good. It’s just not my scene.” I shudder again at the thought of the forced chitchat about loose teeth that would surely transpire.  

“But what if you just went to a really big one?” MV tells me about a playgroup that she’s gone to. “There are so many people… I swear, it’s not awkward at all. You barely have to talk to anyone.”

I mull it over. “I suppose that could be okay,” I mumble, feeling like a grumpy old man. (What kind of person am I that the selling factor to a playgroup is that I’ll barely have to talk to anyone? I decide not to further analyze.)

“It’s really fun. You should try it!” MV continues.

I look over at Buddha who is staring slack jawed at an episode of Sesame Street.

•••

I arrive at the playgroup.  A feeling of dread overcomes me as I open the door to the community center. My mind is flooded with imagery: a sharing circle, women who look like June Cleaver, sandwiches cut into perfect animal shapes. (“This is an orangutan,” June will say as she passes her child a tuna sandwich.)

But when I enter the room it is nothing like what I had pictured.  The large hall has more toys that an FAO Shwarz. It’s a kid’s dream. Buddha immediately busies himself with a toy motorcycle and I follow him around the room, smiling at other parents and making sure that Buddha doesn’t run over their children.

A few minutes in and Buddha is having the time of his life. He squeals with delight every time he discovers a new toy.  I decide that playgroups aren’t so bad.  I even find myself yearning to talk to some of the other moms. I look over at a group of women who are enjoying coffee and laughing together in the corner. That’s when it hits me. Behind my judgment and harsh prediction of what a playgroup would be was the secret fear that I would not, or perhaps could not, fit in.

As soon as I realize this I make a b-line for a mom who is standing at the inflatable gym.  I introduce myself to a woman named Rea and we have a lovely chat. We talk about nothing in particular but it doesn’t matter. It’s just good to make even the smallest connection.

But my June Cleaver moment is short lived.

“I’m sorry. I think I need to sit down for a minute,” I tell her as a wave of nausea hits me. I've never been morning sick before. It must be the playgroup.

I sit down on a chair and put my head between my knees.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to get you something?” says poor freaked out Rea.

“No thanks. It’s just morning sickness. I’ll be fine.” I wave my hand trying to downplay the extreme nausea that’s set in, but I quickly realize this is no small matter.  I have to leave.

I peel myself off the chair and hurry over to Buddha. He’s enthusiastically banging together a toy spoon and pot. I pry them out of his tiny hands and he starts to scream. 

Now the whole room is looking at me but I can’t be bothered with that small fact. I’m about to puke.

After speedily strapping Buddha into his stroller I hightail it for the car. I buckle him into his car seat and drive off, my tires screeching on the pavement. I drive maybe a half a block before frantically pulling over, opening my door, and getting sick all over the pavement.

After I am done, I look up. Standing on the sidewalk is a mom pushing a stroller. She is frozen, gape mouthed.

“I’m so sorry,” I say before slamming the door and driving away.

I guess I’m going to have to find another playgroup.

Namaste,