The first “playdate” I ever had with another mom will be forever burned into my memory as one of the strangest and most uncomfortable afternoons of my life.
With my first child, Addie, playdates were not something I initially gave much thought to. It didn’t occur to me to seek out “mom friends.” I was too busy getting my brain around being a mother and figuring out how to get through the day with this beautiful, marvelous, and needy appendage called a newborn. And so while other moms (I later learned) were joining neighborhood new-mom support groups and chatting each other up at mom meet-up groups, I mostly went about my business, taking lots of walks with my new baby and spending my maternity leave with my young family — walking in the park, going out to eat, or visiting family.
But when my daughter was about six months old, I decided to sign her (and me) up for a music class. Even at the first one, it became clear that many of the other moms in the class were already old friends. They were all friendly, but I wasn’t part of the established clique. How do you know you’re not in the clique in a music class for five-month-olds? Because the moms who are in the clique all set their blankets up next to each other and hold each others’ kids. And don’t make eye contact with you.
So when one mother started chatting me up and sitting next to me, I was happy to have some company.
Sure, she was a little strange. It was not at all warm outside yet, but she wore short dresses with no tights. She routinely bent over in class, exposing herself to the moms, nannies, and members of the kids’ band at the front of the room. If her daughter crawled away from her during class, she shouted across the room for another mom, any mom to “GEEEEETTTT HERRRR.”
Oddly, it never seemed to occur to her to GEEEEETTT HERRRR herself.
Anyway, when she asked if I wanted to get together for a playdate, I should have made up an excuse. Instead I invited her over to my home, where, during what remains as one of the most uncomfortable ninety minutes of my life, she shared with me in great detail the story of her insemination, the various ways child birth had changed her nether regions, and the great array of stomach issues — including flatulency — that she was currently enduring as a side effect of a medication she was taking.
Had it not been for the music class we were both in, I could have simply never seen her again. But that wasn’t possible, and I had to see her every week, in fact. And music class, which was intended to be a fun activity spent with Addie, turned into forty-five minutes each week of talking this woman off the ledge of whatever happened to be on her mind any given Monday. The most frequently recurring topic was the number of vials of semen still left from the donor who fathered her daughter. There were two. While I bopped around the room, dancing with my daughter, she kept time right next to me, telling me about her ovulation schedule and possible insemination days. Instead of watching the puppet show while we sat in a circle with our children on our laps, she asked me extremely personal questions about how Addie came to be conceived: How long did it take? How often did we have to try? Did I use fertility drugs? All the while as the Baby Beethovens — the city’s premiere child music group — played the background soundtrack.
We never did have another playdate, but it was impossible to ignore her. The requests to get together became escalated in both frequency and tone. I mostly blamed my job for scheduling conflicts, which seemed to keep her at bay. But one day she saw some professional family photos I posted to Facebook. She texted me at work to get more information.
Her: Hi, I saw your Facebook photos, what’s the name of the photographer?
Me: Hi, it’s Catherine Desmond.
Her: How can I contact her?
Me: Her website is just her name, I think all the info is there.
Her: But what is her phone number?
Me: I’m not sure, I don’t think I ever spoke to her on the phone. Her email is XXXX.
Her: How could you not have her phone number?
Me: I’m actually at work right now, so I have to go. She’s pretty responsive on email.
Her: YOU ARE SO SELFISH. I ASK YOU FOR ONE THING AND YOU CAN’T EVEN GET ME HER PHONE NUMBER. WHAT KIND OF PERSON ARE YOU?
Her: ALL I WANT IS NICE PHOTOS OF ME AND MY DAUGHTER TOGETHER AND YOU DON’T WANT ME TO HAVE THEM. THAT REALLY SAYS A LOT ABOUT YOU AS A PERSON. YOU ARE SO SELFISH.
Her: AND NOW YOU ARE JUST GOING TO IGNORE ME? YOU ARE SO RUDE. WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO KEEP THIS INFORMATION FROM ME?
Five-minute pause.
Her: How much did you pay for the photos?
That day I called Baby Beethovens and switched to a less convenient day and time for Addie’s music class. But that wasn’t the last I’d see of music-class mom.
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Excerpted from THE HAPPIEST MOMMY YOU KNOW: Why Putting Your Kids First Is the Last Thing You Should Do by Genevieve Shaw Brown. Copyright © 2017 by Genevieve Shaw Brown. Reprinted with permission from Touchstone, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.