When motherhood becomes a laughing matter

We spent the next forty-five minutes exchanging information on scintillating topics such as “is diaper rash really a rash?” the “pros and cons of spending extra money on Dreft detergent” and “whether or not Pampers were really better for girls.” If there wasn’t a teacher present perhaps we could have discussed more important mommy issues like “how to clean your bathroom without actually cleaning your bathroom” or “finding time to masturbate” but this was definitely all about the babies.

One woman giddily suggested that it might be a fun mommy activity for all of us to drive about forty miles out of town later that week to watch her get her new child car seat installed and, unbelievably, a few women actually seemed genuinely interested. I momentarily considered inviting everyone along for my next pap smear, but was scared I’d get some takers.

During this time my mind started to wander a bit. I glanced around to see if there were any moms who felt as out of their element as I did. I noticed one woman was wearing a pink tank top with the words “Brody’s Mommy” spelled out in sequins like some sort of Brody groupie. I wondered what this was all about. I love my baby too, but I’ve never felt the need to shout it from my breasts. Hey, I own my own home, but I don’t have that information bedazzled on the seat of my pants. Plus, I’ve never seen anyone wearing an “I Have Herpes” T-shirt. Yet, I happen to know that one out of every six people carry the virus. Wouldn’t that be much more helpful personal advertising?

It also occurred to me that I could get a group of mothers with babies around my baby’s age together at one of our houses or a park — for free. This is officially called a playgroup. For a lot of women this is ideal.  But, for me, I had to be realistic, I can’t figure out how to fit a vegetable in with a pasta dish. There was no way I would be organizing a group of women and their babies to be in the same place, at the same time, with snacks on a weekly basis. 

I snapped back to attention just as we shifted to the entertainment portion of the class. Our leader opened her set with a couple of baby crowd pleaser songs like “Open, Shut Them” and “Wheels On The Bus.” It was just as I’d feared; I didn’t know any of the words to these songs, and felt self-conscious and out of place. But, as I scanned the room to see if anyone would notice if I snuck out, I finally caught the eye of a woman who looked as ill at ease as I did. She smiled at me and rolled her eyes. There, I’d made a friend. My work here was done. I figured I’d try to get my new buddy to ditch this group and go to the mall.

But when I looked down at the little wriggly baby in my lap, she was loving it: the atmosphere, the songs, the other babies. My little sweetie’s eyes were lit up like Paris Hilton in a Fendi shop. My heart melted and I knew I was in for the long haul. She giggled her way through every baby song, clapping game and nursery rhyme. I leaned in close, nuzzling her ear and whispered, “You do know this means you will not be putting me in a home when I get old, right?”

Just when it seemed it couldn’t get any cheesier, a couple of bird hand puppets made their appearance. I think they were supposed to be birds because of the “Two Little Blackbirds” song that accompanied them, but it was difficult to make a visual ID. These puppets looked like they’d been sewn by someone in the midst of a seizure, on a train … during an earthquake. Yet the babies responded like a bunch of sex starved blue-hairs at a Tom Jones concert. I could swear a couple of the babies were so excited they threw their Pampers into the middle of the room. It was downright embarrassing.

And then I realized something even more troubling. I was kind of into it in spite of myself, smiling and laughing along with my baby. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment I’d gone over to the dark side, but it had happened.

Later in the parking lot as I strapped my exhausted baby into her car seat and yelled “see you next week” to Brody’s Mom as she drove away in a huge white Lexus with a vanity plate surrounded by flashing lights that read, naturally, BRODYSMOM, it really sunk in. I knew with certainty that this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be sacrificing my dignity in the name of motherhood. Yes, I’d be back at Mommy and Me next week. And the week after that.

But I wouldn’t rule out a little private weekly playgroup with my one new Mommy and Me friend at the nearby El Torito — free except for the price of four margaritas.

Excerpted from “Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay: And Other Things I Had to Learn as a New Mom” by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. Copyright © 2006 by Stefanie Wilder-Taylor. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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