Ah, the playgroup.
A place of gathering for new mothers and their children, where snacks are served, craft materials are abundant and conversation is overflowing with low-fat recipes and sleep training advice. It's a place where bonds are formed between parents and where children learn to share and make their first friends.
A magical place. A wonderous place.
A total crock. Well, sort of. The Maven has been scarred by brutal reality and has been hesitant to get back on the Mom Scene horse, so to speak.
You see, I know all about playgroups. I went to one for about two months a few years back and that has made me a bonafied expert on the subject. I went with an unknowingly hard of hearing child with a penchant for violence and a strong dislike of sharing, who was significantly larger than a lot of the tots he was to be befriending and sharing with.
Intrepid had this thing about hitting other kids. A lot. I guess it came from not being able to hear them all that well. Oh, and being a highly doted on only child of two young parents who had no idea what a challenge this I'm-pregnant-but-it's-ok-because-babies-are-fun experience would be. The combination proved disasterous to our mutual social lives. He would hit, I would intervene, he would hit again, I would intervene again... and this made it very difficult for him to make any friends or for me, as I was too busy watching my child like a hawk to talk to anyone.
After a few polite but obvious comments about my boy's behaviour, I felt it best to duck out of playgroup with my parental tail between my legs. I couldn't properly socialize my child in a situation designed to, well, properly socialize one's child. I felt like a complete and utter failure as a mother and the bitterness stayed with me for years. As I licked my ostrasized wounds, I vowed never to return to playgroups again. Not a single one. Never, ever.
Until today.
This morning I bravely put on my winter attire, bundled up the two younger gremlins and made my way to Gutsy's preschool. After dropping him off, I got up my nerve, walked to the church next door and nervously climbed the stairs to the playgroup's meeting place.
I didn't just decide to join a new playgroup. I joined the playgroup. The one I had quietly left before, which was closely followed by trying to avoid any mothers from the group for the next few years. It made grocery shopping quite uncomfortable. There are only so many times you can duck behind a bakery rack or read the ingredients of an olive jar you hastily plucked from the shelf.
The truth is, that playgroup reminded me of how badly I felt I had failed Intrepid as his mother. I was home with him, I spent lots of time with him, I loved him to pieces and yet he couldn't make any friends because he was too busy hitting/shoving/taking from/yelling at them. It wasn't so much that he was doing these things; it was more that I couldn't understand why. And the why ate me up for another three years until I finally had the bright idea to have his hearing checked.
And then, of course, I ordered myself up another plate of sauteed mommy guilt and chomped on that for another couple of years as I pondered how in the world I could have missed something as seemingly obvious as hearing loss. But I'll save that for another night with another decaf and another raisin bran muffin. That's a whole other mishap in itself.
To make a long story short, I, The Maven, walked into that playgroup with as much courage as I could muster and a three-month-old teeming with personality to smooth over my transition into the new clique of mothers. Nothing distracts people from your imperfections like a new baby. I was even able to tell them the story of being voted off the island with Intrepid, quickly followed up by my new master plan:
Start bringing Spawling to playgroup while he's sweet and innocent so that, when he gets to that ever-so-lovely I-like-to-hit stage the other two gremlins have gone through, people will love him anyway because he's Baby Spawnling. Remember how cute he used to look in his Old Navy track suit? Awww. Remember his cute little blue shoes? His 'I've been a good boy' hat? He could never do any harm with a hat like that.
And surprisingly, my idea was met with warm laughter.
I don't get why they were laughing when I was perfectly serious. It sounds like a damn good plan to me, thanks.
Ergo, every Monday morning from now until the end of May, I shall be getting out of bed with a dual purpose: Get Intrepid and Gutsy off to school and get Spawnling off to playgroup.
I've learned through a great deal of strife that there's no way to 'properly socialize one's child', as I had previously thought. Playgroups are designed with three important outcomes in mind:
1. For moms to get to know other moms.
2. For moms not to go crazy in the house in the dead of winter with no one to talk to but a two-year-old, and,
3. For children to play with new toys and contract weird diseases from whatever germs were left upon them.
If Junior learns how not to throw trucks at the heads of his peers a few months earlier than he would otherwise, then that should be considered a bonus and nothing more. Little kids like to watch and learn from other little kids, but this idea of it being some kind of mandatory socialization is crazier than I am after taking the gremz on a roadtrip. It's supposed to be fun and leisurely. If it's anything but, it's time to find another time killer.
So while I could spout off all the supposed benefits for wee Spawnling of me rejoining the ranks of the playgroup playmates, I think I'll save up my lies and justifications for another time. I'm there for my own socialization, thanks. I want a coffee and a chance to chat with other women while I watch their children beat the living hell out of one another (after they pick their noses)... (the kids, not the moms. I might not want to chat with the moms if they're picking their noses in front of me). I want to recharge my batteries for a while. And if Spawnling ends up enjoying it too, all the better. For now he's content to watch the action from my lap (or the lap of another mom who swears up and down she's done having children but please oh please can I hold your baby oh my god he smells so good).
The women there are nice and seem to like me. And I think believe me to be sane of mind and worth talking to. I can pull that off 'normal' look when I want to.
I had better not let them find my blog, though. Like, ever.
A place of gathering for new mothers and their children, where snacks are served, craft materials are abundant and conversation is overflowing with low-fat recipes and sleep training advice. It's a place where bonds are formed between parents and where children learn to share and make their first friends.
A magical place. A wonderous place.
A total crock. Well, sort of. The Maven has been scarred by brutal reality and has been hesitant to get back on the Mom Scene horse, so to speak.
You see, I know all about playgroups. I went to one for about two months a few years back and that has made me a bonafied expert on the subject. I went with an unknowingly hard of hearing child with a penchant for violence and a strong dislike of sharing, who was significantly larger than a lot of the tots he was to be befriending and sharing with.
Intrepid had this thing about hitting other kids. A lot. I guess it came from not being able to hear them all that well. Oh, and being a highly doted on only child of two young parents who had no idea what a challenge this I'm-pregnant-but-it's-ok-because-babies-are-fun experience would be. The combination proved disasterous to our mutual social lives. He would hit, I would intervene, he would hit again, I would intervene again... and this made it very difficult for him to make any friends or for me, as I was too busy watching my child like a hawk to talk to anyone.
After a few polite but obvious comments about my boy's behaviour, I felt it best to duck out of playgroup with my parental tail between my legs. I couldn't properly socialize my child in a situation designed to, well, properly socialize one's child. I felt like a complete and utter failure as a mother and the bitterness stayed with me for years. As I licked my ostrasized wounds, I vowed never to return to playgroups again. Not a single one. Never, ever.
Until today.
This morning I bravely put on my winter attire, bundled up the two younger gremlins and made my way to Gutsy's preschool. After dropping him off, I got up my nerve, walked to the church next door and nervously climbed the stairs to the playgroup's meeting place.
I didn't just decide to join a new playgroup. I joined the playgroup. The one I had quietly left before, which was closely followed by trying to avoid any mothers from the group for the next few years. It made grocery shopping quite uncomfortable. There are only so many times you can duck behind a bakery rack or read the ingredients of an olive jar you hastily plucked from the shelf.
The truth is, that playgroup reminded me of how badly I felt I had failed Intrepid as his mother. I was home with him, I spent lots of time with him, I loved him to pieces and yet he couldn't make any friends because he was too busy hitting/shoving/taking from/yelling at them. It wasn't so much that he was doing these things; it was more that I couldn't understand why. And the why ate me up for another three years until I finally had the bright idea to have his hearing checked.
And then, of course, I ordered myself up another plate of sauteed mommy guilt and chomped on that for another couple of years as I pondered how in the world I could have missed something as seemingly obvious as hearing loss. But I'll save that for another night with another decaf and another raisin bran muffin. That's a whole other mishap in itself.
To make a long story short, I, The Maven, walked into that playgroup with as much courage as I could muster and a three-month-old teeming with personality to smooth over my transition into the new clique of mothers. Nothing distracts people from your imperfections like a new baby. I was even able to tell them the story of being voted off the island with Intrepid, quickly followed up by my new master plan:
Start bringing Spawling to playgroup while he's sweet and innocent so that, when he gets to that ever-so-lovely I-like-to-hit stage the other two gremlins have gone through, people will love him anyway because he's Baby Spawnling. Remember how cute he used to look in his Old Navy track suit? Awww. Remember his cute little blue shoes? His 'I've been a good boy' hat? He could never do any harm with a hat like that.
And surprisingly, my idea was met with warm laughter.
I don't get why they were laughing when I was perfectly serious. It sounds like a damn good plan to me, thanks.
Ergo, every Monday morning from now until the end of May, I shall be getting out of bed with a dual purpose: Get Intrepid and Gutsy off to school and get Spawnling off to playgroup.
I've learned through a great deal of strife that there's no way to 'properly socialize one's child', as I had previously thought. Playgroups are designed with three important outcomes in mind:
1. For moms to get to know other moms.
2. For moms not to go crazy in the house in the dead of winter with no one to talk to but a two-year-old, and,
3. For children to play with new toys and contract weird diseases from whatever germs were left upon them.
If Junior learns how not to throw trucks at the heads of his peers a few months earlier than he would otherwise, then that should be considered a bonus and nothing more. Little kids like to watch and learn from other little kids, but this idea of it being some kind of mandatory socialization is crazier than I am after taking the gremz on a roadtrip. It's supposed to be fun and leisurely. If it's anything but, it's time to find another time killer.
So while I could spout off all the supposed benefits for wee Spawnling of me rejoining the ranks of the playgroup playmates, I think I'll save up my lies and justifications for another time. I'm there for my own socialization, thanks. I want a coffee and a chance to chat with other women while I watch their children beat the living hell out of one another (after they pick their noses)... (the kids, not the moms. I might not want to chat with the moms if they're picking their noses in front of me). I want to recharge my batteries for a while. And if Spawnling ends up enjoying it too, all the better. For now he's content to watch the action from my lap (or the lap of another mom who swears up and down she's done having children but please oh please can I hold your baby oh my god he smells so good).
The women there are nice and seem to like me. And I think believe me to be sane of mind and worth talking to. I can pull that off 'normal' look when I want to.
I had better not let them find my blog, though. Like, ever.