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Playgroup Moms &
Me
Intentional Family Living | Elizabeth di Grazia
You know how it is, sitting in the park next to the playgroup mothers, watching them
place veggie booty -- green-speckled, yellow puffed food -- in front of their children
whose tentacles reach for it eagerly. Immediately following comes the soy yogurt,
the blueberries, the applesauce and wheat crackers.
There you are handing your 2-year-old son a circus-shaped cone of Kentucky Fried
popcorn chicken. In the recess of your mind...way back there...hours ago when it
was still morning, you recall the newspaper article you read about employees at a
chicken factory battering live chickens against a wall, stomping on their heads.
You wonder if that's what the other mothers are envisioning as you open your fallback
-- the Styrofoam container of chicken strips and barbecued beans. Shrugging your
shoulders, as a reminder that you don't care what they think, you look down at your
son, a chipmunk with cheeks bulging, hoping that he swallows the animal flesh instead
of spitting up the spoils. He's gotten in the habit lately of masticating forever
then expelling in one giant blagh the dregs.
Your daughter, the quiet one, picks up another JoJo potato.
"Oh, I've never tried Kentucky Fried Chicken," said the mother with the
veggie booty. She also has two children, so you don't have the excuse that she doesn't
have the dirty diapers, the tired toddlers, turned whiny. Some people say expressive
is a better term to use then whiny. You know that they don't have a whiny child then,
'cause you know whiny: the incessant chord of a bee, not in search of sweetener but
working your edge, wanting, wanting, wanting what!...you don't know...and...they
don't either. When you say, "Stop!" silence reigns...wait...wait...their
engine jumpstarts, lodging the constant off-key thrum in your inner ear, unbalancing
you...again.
"No, you can't have another cracker until you eat a spoon of applesauce,"
a mother says.
You say to your son, "No, that's milk. You won't like it." Not wanting
to be wasteful, you open the carton; drink the warm chalky liquid. As the liquid
dribbles down the back of your throat you think, maybe...maybe you should try milk
again. Your children's tastes are always changing, so much so that you can't keep
up with them. What was true yesterday isn't necessarily true today.
I'm new to this Guatemalan playgroup. It used to be Jody's thing when she stayed
home part-time. It's my thing now...though I placate myself by saying, "It's
for the children." Five mothers, eight children -- 1 to 3 years of age -- make
up the playgroup: three boys, five girls, and one non-lesbian mother. After a conversation
with one of the moms, we came to realize that in our past life -- before partners
-- before children -- we had dated the same woman (but not at the same time). This
shouldn't have surprised me, that being the way in the lesbian community. At times,
especially soon after breaking up with a woman, I've walked nervously at gatherings,
not knowing who I was going to meet, or what they would presume to know about me.
I feel a bond with this playgroup mother as if we've already slept together.
The playgroup rotates to each other's home for three hours, once a week. Usually
it takes Antonio and Crystel an hour to become accustomed to the other children and
their surroundings. Sitting on the floor, I point to what their "friends"
are doing, encouraging them to say hello. It's my job to show them how to be social,
I think. What I told the other mothers when I became the playgroup mom was that I
don't like community. As soon as I said that, I realized it wasn't a good icebreaker.
I've had life-long problems joining, getting along in groups, ultimately struggling
with the coach or leader (formal or informal) because I had a differing of opinion.
Maybe Antonio and Crystel will help me learn to get along. I stay at their side until
they walk away, engaging with their playmates. That's our unspoken agreement.
Antonio becomes agitated in closed spaces. "Too loud," he'll say. "Too
loud." We take a break outdoors with Crystel joining us. Amongst the shaded
back yard, with the scrambling squirrels and busy, busy birds, I question what I'm
teaching. Is it to be unlike others, independent, distinctive? After a lapsed period,
I urge the children to rejoin the group.
"Eat, eat," Antonio says. I open our lunch bag, hand him crackers. Another
agreement we have is that if they're hungry we'll eat. I won't insist they wait until
the other mothers gather their children, setting them down. My parents did not see
to my needs, tend to me or keep me safe. I'm determined to do different by my children,
even if this means being contrary. Not being present to my children is not acceptable
to me. I won't place group approval or my want to be liked above their regard. After
all, I'm their mother.
Is community not essential to me because I'm not any good at it? This seems strange,
being raised in a family of 14. The key word is raised. I had a rich environment
to hone observation skills, spawn a poker face, become spontaneously gifted, develop
an "anything's possible" motif, and mastered not caring about the very
thing that others found important.
One could say that I have an attitude about the whole playgroup community thing.
But, I'm a parent. It's my job to show my children how to join, get along, and be
a part-of. Correspondingly, I also want to teach them to have a self, a voice, and
a willingness to stand apart when the situation doesn't feel right.
I insist on following house rules and some group norms. Such as when we go to a restaurant,
and Antonio wants to stand in his chair. Pointing to everyone seated, I say, "Do
you see anyone else standing on their chair? We sit when we eat." If he starts
to whine, I remove him from the area until he stops. I like to think that I have
rules. I'm just selective.
Last week in playgroup, almost 2-year-old Katherine was whaling on 1-year-old Duncan;
violence, meanness and determination showed in each swat of her hand before her mother
could grab her arm, stopping the pummeling. Giddy, I rolled on the floor laughing,
happy it wasn't my child. Antonio was playing peacefully across the room with other
children, while Crystel sat next to me fiddling with a toy. A moment later, Katherine
asked me for a doll that I was holding.
"Katherine you can have anything you want of mine," I said.
"You better give it to her," responded her mother. Having dated the same
woman, the mother understood my laughter as I understood her jesting. Maybe I am
learning how to get along.
Because I am the playgroup mom, Jody has had to surrender any hard-won appearances
with the other mothers.
"You didn't tell Shelly that did you?" said Jody on the phone. Shelly has
two girls, dresses her children impeccably and is forever relaying impending doom
messages about what can happen to children if not cared for properly.
"Sure I did, as soon as we drove up. I said to her, 'I don't know how I did
it, Shelly, but I forgot to buckle Antonio in his car seat. I noticed on the way
over. He was sitting cross-legged in his car seat with the widest smile I've ever
seen. I said to him, don't you dare move.' "
Jody took a loud breath. A mistake such as that is not something she'd share, whereas
I use it as a conversation opener. Though I admit, I have changed the children's
outfits after taking a second look and I swear that next time...I'll bring yogurt
or peas or something antioxidant for them to eat.
Elizabeth di Grazia has published short work in a number of periodicals, including
the Phoenix and Rockhurst Review. An excerpt from her memoir, House of Fire was published
in Beginnings. Elizabeth and her partner, Jody, are the mothers of like-twins, born
July and September 2002, in Guatemala. Elizabeth can be reached at edigrazia@msn.com
Copyright © 2005 Elizabeth di Grazia. All rights reserved. |
| May 2005 |
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