.the mom show.
last night i was invited to dinner with strangers. a whole family of them, and their friends.
it's this woman whose blog i read daily. i'm enamored with her, her house, her children, her digital camera. her husband is an adorable ad exec at the most prestigious firm in town. she's a former ad exec herself, a former sorority girl, ski bum, party animal, slut. she's a lot of things i will never be. and now she's a mom, front and center, talking diapers and tit milk and drool all over the internets.
she wears yoga pants and a hoodie, flip flops and a ponytail. she's dressed for dirt and lethargy, couch-sitting, drinking a beer on a lawn chair. and that's what she's doing, slurping pad thai and microbrew, while i hold her six month old boy. she doesn't look straight at me, or at anybody for that matter. she's performing the charismatic still-hip mom show. she talks loudly. my grandma would have said she hollers. she hugs me. she's the kind of person who fascinates me from a distance, but in person, her arms wrapped around my neck, i invert. it's too much, too loud, too close and i can't look at her face.
i'm sitting there, in a purple lawn chair balancing a redheaded infant on one knee and a pabst on the other when the others arrive. a whole family walks up, mom, dad, and three small girls, wobbling in bright pinafores and pink cowboy boots. celebrity mom shouts introductions and i look around for some shade, a tree to hide under, an escape hatch. i wish for a cigarette. i'm pinned in by this crowd of people, and all i can do is count heads: nine adults, six children.
i'm there with my bf. i can call him that, after three months. we're the childless couple in a party of marrieds-with-kids. and they treat us like we're about to be initiated. "maybe z will have a little cousin soon," says susie. they ask us questions as if we're joined. "where do you live?" asks a father to both of us. he expects one answer, not two separate addresses. "don't have kids," instructs the mom show, coy and sarcastic. "how long have you two been together?" we stare at her and i stutter, "not long enough to need the don't-have-kids talk." bf agrees with vigor.
the mom show's middle is round and thick under her hoodie. that middle has been shelter to two home-grown infants, and god give her due credit. but she's got a beer in one hand and pad thai in the other, and she isn't ashamed to eat all of it. i'm picking the shrimp off my plate, stirring noodles strategically, leaving the rest under my chair. food looks like a harbinger of chubby yoga pants to me, and i won't let my guard down.
all in all, i adore children. i pine for their fat hands, high pitched giggles, puzzling vocabulary. i babysit for fun, for free. i need occasional kid time like a junkie. but in this backyard, with six of them circling, falling down, crying, spilling, grabbing at calves and hands, i could throw up a little. they are disgusting. the old one bosses, the little ones stumble, speechless, inept. they approach me, brandishing plastic phones, blinking, screeching and battery-operated. they hold them out to me, touch my knees, smile with big pleading eyes and it's like they're devouring me. i'm in the monster pit, squeamish and panicking. the infant clutches the top edge of my shirt, pulls it down until my cleavage is sunlit and my black bra is visible to the crowd. the toddlers want more juice, more juice. their pizza falls in the grass. they want help. they want to play. they want to touch me.
"can i get you another beer," bf asks, as i'm spooning unidentified orange sauce into the mouth of the baby. "do they have anything stronger?" i ask. "vodka with razor blades? when can we go?" he smiles at me sympathetically, but this occasion doesn't stir up the obvious terror in him that it does in me. he brings me the strongest ipa in the fridge and attends to the greedy screamers, helps them up and down the plastic slide. they climb on him, squealing.
it's this woman whose blog i read daily. i'm enamored with her, her house, her children, her digital camera. her husband is an adorable ad exec at the most prestigious firm in town. she's a former ad exec herself, a former sorority girl, ski bum, party animal, slut. she's a lot of things i will never be. and now she's a mom, front and center, talking diapers and tit milk and drool all over the internets.
she wears yoga pants and a hoodie, flip flops and a ponytail. she's dressed for dirt and lethargy, couch-sitting, drinking a beer on a lawn chair. and that's what she's doing, slurping pad thai and microbrew, while i hold her six month old boy. she doesn't look straight at me, or at anybody for that matter. she's performing the charismatic still-hip mom show. she talks loudly. my grandma would have said she hollers. she hugs me. she's the kind of person who fascinates me from a distance, but in person, her arms wrapped around my neck, i invert. it's too much, too loud, too close and i can't look at her face.
i'm sitting there, in a purple lawn chair balancing a redheaded infant on one knee and a pabst on the other when the others arrive. a whole family walks up, mom, dad, and three small girls, wobbling in bright pinafores and pink cowboy boots. celebrity mom shouts introductions and i look around for some shade, a tree to hide under, an escape hatch. i wish for a cigarette. i'm pinned in by this crowd of people, and all i can do is count heads: nine adults, six children.
i'm there with my bf. i can call him that, after three months. we're the childless couple in a party of marrieds-with-kids. and they treat us like we're about to be initiated. "maybe z will have a little cousin soon," says susie. they ask us questions as if we're joined. "where do you live?" asks a father to both of us. he expects one answer, not two separate addresses. "don't have kids," instructs the mom show, coy and sarcastic. "how long have you two been together?" we stare at her and i stutter, "not long enough to need the don't-have-kids talk." bf agrees with vigor.
the mom show's middle is round and thick under her hoodie. that middle has been shelter to two home-grown infants, and god give her due credit. but she's got a beer in one hand and pad thai in the other, and she isn't ashamed to eat all of it. i'm picking the shrimp off my plate, stirring noodles strategically, leaving the rest under my chair. food looks like a harbinger of chubby yoga pants to me, and i won't let my guard down.
all in all, i adore children. i pine for their fat hands, high pitched giggles, puzzling vocabulary. i babysit for fun, for free. i need occasional kid time like a junkie. but in this backyard, with six of them circling, falling down, crying, spilling, grabbing at calves and hands, i could throw up a little. they are disgusting. the old one bosses, the little ones stumble, speechless, inept. they approach me, brandishing plastic phones, blinking, screeching and battery-operated. they hold them out to me, touch my knees, smile with big pleading eyes and it's like they're devouring me. i'm in the monster pit, squeamish and panicking. the infant clutches the top edge of my shirt, pulls it down until my cleavage is sunlit and my black bra is visible to the crowd. the toddlers want more juice, more juice. their pizza falls in the grass. they want help. they want to play. they want to touch me.
"can i get you another beer," bf asks, as i'm spooning unidentified orange sauce into the mouth of the baby. "do they have anything stronger?" i ask. "vodka with razor blades? when can we go?" he smiles at me sympathetically, but this occasion doesn't stir up the obvious terror in him that it does in me. he brings me the strongest ipa in the fridge and attends to the greedy screamers, helps them up and down the plastic slide. they climb on him, squealing.
posted by .i'll never tell. at 3:58 PM
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