Playgroups & Other Things to Feel Guilty About

I eagerly sat down to my trusty Mac today, intent on share deeply meaningful and painfully relevant insights about my transmogrification into a card carrying Mommy Mafioso.

Instead, I'm just feeling relieved, hugely so, and a little guilty about it. How's that for deeply meaningful?

I've whined about described here over the past month Master P's health & nap struggles, but today - finally  - he was well & rested enough to attend our playgroup. For the non-Snug Mummies out there, the technical definition of one of these playdates is a group of maybe five to ten moms, all stay-at-home in our case, who meet once or twice per week to socialize babies & moms alike.

The non-technical definition of playgroup for me has = lifeline. As many of you so wisely suggested months ago, finding a group of like-minded mothers to ease my transition into stay-at-home motherhood has been a tremendous source of support, blah blah blah. (NB: I had to add the "blah blah" to maintain some semblance of ironic detachment here; thank you for understanding.). Of gaining insight onto how to approach the changes to come in Master P's life, from nap schedules to the mysteries of preschool wait lists. Of having a place where I can vent. Oh, and providing a nice outlet in which Master P can play in a new, stimulating environment and socialize with other babies.

It's the "Oh, also..." bit that gets me shame spiraling into the Mom Guilt abyss. Shouldn't Master P be enough? Why am I desperate to get out of the house regularly? What happened to the lady desperate for handbags, not the company of other housewives? Is there anything I can't feel guilty about now? Does this mean I miss the working life? (If not being a lawyer, because - no.)(With emphasis)(Parentheses)

Guilt aside, I can't tell you how familiar and welcoming it was to walk into a room of other moms & babies today and have that sense of community, even with those where the only thing which we have in common are said babies. Yes, chilly me, the Queen of Detachment - Hillary Clinton & I both take a village.

And on that terminally sappy note, I'm going to go get Pretty - yes, moms dress up for one another just like we did as Singletons - to attend yet another playgroup this afternoon, lest I continue to sit here overanalyzing this. We'll get back to the business of being Prettier than Everyone Else & other vitally important matters tomorrow; for today, I'm going to brush aside the guilt in manner of my uptight forebears and enjoy.

Are You There, God? It's Me, Pretty

(Credit: Wikipedia)

Hi there, Judy Blume! Or is it Higher Power you're going by nowadays?  In any event, hey.

I'm not here invoking your wisdom today like I did the last time in sixth grade, when it was all about Health Ed. and Boy X with the dreamy green eyes.  Happily, both of those hopeless causes are now a faded memory*.

*Except for the diving board video in health class.  Remember?  REMEMBER?

Today I am cognizant of the fact, as I wasn't back then, that I am actually a very fortunate individual.  Somehow, despite the fact that Boy X did not return my adolescent affections**, I've lucked into a wonderful, blessed adult life.  Nonetheless, this week I find myself a wee bit overwhelmed by said tremendous life and very much wishing that in the span of your usual hundred-something paperback pages or less, you could give kind guidance on the following issues:

**His name was etched on my Trapper Keeper - until he went after my best friend instead.  Trapper Keeper traitor!

- opposing counsel non-maiming

- car buying

- car paying

- travel planning

- (gulp) kidlet planning

- potential Pug fostering

- no sleeping

- pony finding (thought I'd throw this one in, just in case you have a spare)

I'm not asking to be sent back to sixth grade, Miss Blume.  Actually, I will pay you handsomely to not send me back to that unique purgatory.  I'm just saying that, you know, a good night's sleep and maybe a lightning bolt solution to one of the above dilemmas would be super. Besides, my junior high prayers of "I must, I must, I must increase my bust . . ." didn't exactly come through, so you might owe me, Margaret,  and potentially a generation or two of girls a favor or two.  Just a thought.

Thanks!

xoxo,

Legallyblondemel

Easing Into Reality . . .

For those of us doing the job thing (or, nowadays, fortunate enough to have a job thing), let's all take a moment of silence to commisserate over the suckiness that was going back to work today:

(((pause)))

As us laboring sorts unite in our self-pity, I hope you'll forgive my easing slowly from nattering on about my beachy vacation into my usual delusions of grandeur and self-importance. After all, a girl can't just jump from poolside bliss to Judging Other People, from 0 to 60, overnight. Except that I so totally can, but am trying to Keep Up Appearances here. Thank you for your understanding.

In any event, an email chat with the original Retail Ninja, SLynnRo, got me thinking about the oft-colorful experience of being an American abroad. On my recent adventure, "abroad" = "sitting as still as possible in a Baja paradise", so I only speak from my particular poolside perch here.

As a Southern Californian by nurture and nature, it is my particular birthright to speak with innate authority on two subjects - cosmetic surgery (*not* that I've had any yet - truly - nor do I plan to yet) and appropriate poolside / beachy decorum. I imagine this is much like you Manhattan types hold the floor on sample sales & you Chicagoans can speak to abject political corruption.

In any event, I know these guidelines are redundant amongst my most attractive, intelligent, and genteel readers. Since I've got my complaining tiara on anyways, here are the Pretty Top 5 Rules for How Not to Represent Self and Country (USA) While in Beachy Paradise Abroad:* **
*Yes, yes - there are some very serious problems happening in the world right now which might - might - trump beachy rules in the grand scale of things. I hear those nice folks over at CNN cover that sort of thing.

**If you suspect I'm writing about this only to avoid talking AGAIN about Those Books Pretty Won't Shut Up About, you might be right. Look, I'm trying here. Thank you again for your understanding.

Rule 5 - Make out conspicuously in the pool/ocean, either while in full view of other patrons and/or in the same body of water as them. Because the ocean view princess suite you booked simply isn't sufficient to contain the intense flames of your poolside passion.

Rule 4 - If you are in a country where the primary language is not English, speak English in a loud, condescending to the resort staff and become irrationally irritated with them for not then understanding you.***
***Ask me how I feel about this one if a proposed Asia trip comes to fruition. I'm beseeching you to have a short memory here. Loveyoumeanitlater.

Rule 3 - Men and women alike, wear as much flashy jewelry poolside as possible. The more diamonds, the better. After all, isn't it a swell idea to advertise how much money you have while abroad?

Rule 2 - While you're speaking English, God's Chosen Language, say it loud and proud - at least two decibels above your comfortable "inside voice". If you see us flinch, that means we can't hear you yet.

Rule 1 - Ladies, please use your new Goyard tote or LV Damier Canvas hobo as your (sand filled, sunscreen spewed, pina colada drenched) pool tote. See Rule 3 above, then proceed to my lounge and deposit offending bag with me.

Lovelies, anything I'm missing here?