People I Want to Punch in the Throat (8 page)

I was actually able to strike a great work-life balance. The Hubs hooked me up with a sweet home office and Wi-Fi so I could sit on my bed with a snoozing Gomer cuddled up against me and a laptop in my lap. If I had to show a house or two, I’d take Gomer in his infant carrier seat and leave him sleeping in the front hall of the house I was touring. (Don’t worry, Nervous Nellies, I always made sure the front door was locked so no one could sneak in and snatch my adorable baby.)

Gomer was my little assistant. I would set him up on the floor with a few toys and he would play happily while I returned phone calls and emails. One of his favorite toys was a kiddie
laptop and one of my old cell phones. As he got older, he would pretend to sell houses, too. He would “call” clients on his phone and say things like “Hello? Need house?” or “Joe [the name of my favorite lender], will we close? Will we?”

At first I thought this was hilarious. I thought my little toddler loved his mama so much that he wanted to be just like her. I had visions of him growing up and joining my real estate team. We’d be Jen & Son—House Hunters. Until the day I heard, “Hello? Joe? Wanna come play?”

“What did you ask Joe, Gomer?” I asked, hoping I had misheard him.

Gomer looked me with the saddest little eyes I’d ever seen. “Come play,” he said.

I was a terrible, shitty mother. Here I thought I was doing the right thing by keeping him home with me, where he could be raised and nurtured by me, instead of sending him to day care, where he’d be just another cog in their machine of germy kids. In fact, I was screwing him up! He had no friends and he knew it. He understood that it wasn’t normal to sit home all day with his mother and an old cell phone to keep him company. He was going to be that weird kid in kindergarten who wouldn’t know how to play with his peers or share toys. I had to fix this. Fast.

I turned to the one place that never lets me down when I’m making big life decisions: the Internet. I searched for a local playgroup, and the first one that popped up sounded perfect. They had playgroups several days during the week and activities for just the moms at night. I forked over my credit card number without even attending a meeting.

The first meeting I could attend was the following week. I arrived a little early because I hate walking into a room full of strangers. I’d rather get there early and find a good dark corner
where I can camp out and survey the land a bit before I venture out of my comfort zone.

The first person I met was the woman in charge of the playgroups. “Oh great! You’re just the person I want to see,” I exclaimed. “I have a two-year-old and he needs some friends.”

“Great. We’d love to have you,” she replied.

“I looked at the website and I saw that you’re going to the fire station tomorrow. Gomer would love that. He really likes firemen,” I blathered.

“Oh, I’m sorry, that won’t be possible,” she said, cutting me off. “That’s the
Red
Group’s activity. You’d be in the
Orange
Group. The Orange Group is going to a tour of the grocery store on Friday. You’re welcome to join them then.”

“Friday? Oh, I can’t do Friday. I have a listing appointment on Friday. That’s why I wanted to go to the fire station tomorrow, when my schedule is open.”

“I don’t think you’re understanding. The Red Group is full. There is no more room in the Red Group. Only the Orange Group has room. They always meet on Fridays.”

“Well, what’s the difference? Do they do the same things?” I asked.

“There is no difference really. However, they don’t do the same things.”
Uh, I think that’s a difference, lady
. She went on, “I personally arranged for the fire station visit because I’m good friends with someone in the department. I’m not sure the Orange Group could get a tour, since they don’t know anyone there.”

“So, you’re in the Red Group?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “I told you, I planned the trip to the firehouse. Each group plans their own activities. Obviously
someone in the Orange Group has a connection with the grocery store.”

“But the Orange Group won’t work for me. Fridays are typically busy days for me. I’m a Realtor”—I gave her my card; always be selling—“and most people like to list their houses on a Friday. So I like the group that meets on Wednesdays.” Plus I didn’t want to go take a tour of the damn grocery store! I was in there all the time. I wanted to see some hot firemen! I mean, I wanted Gomer to learn about fire safety.

“Sorry, but Wednesdays are the Red Group. And—”

“Yes, I know. It’s full. Only the Orange Group has room,” I finished. This chick was like a broken record.

How fucked up is that?
I thought.
How can you have a playgroup that’s “full”?

“Hi, you must be Jen!” Another woman walked up to us. “I’m one of the co-presidents of the group. I saw your membership form come through. So nice to meet you. I’m glad you could join us.”

“Yeah, hi. I’m not sure I can join,” I replied. “I think I need a refund.”

“That’s fine. We can get that taken care of tonight,” the playgroup lady said. “Did you pay by credit card or check?”

“Hold on!” the co-president said. “Why do you want a refund? What’s the matter?”

“She says I can’t be in the Red Group,” I whined like a toddler. “There’s only room in the Orange Group and they meet on Fridays, which is a terrible day for me, because I’m a Realtor—here’s my card—and Fridays are the absolute worst day for me.”

“I don’t understand. Why can’t she be in the Red Group?” the co-president asked the playgroup warden.

“It’s full,” she said.

“Full? I didn’t realize our playgroups had limited spaces.”

“They can and they do.”

“I’m sorry, Jen, my kids are in school, so I’m not as involved in the playgroups as I used to be. I stick around for the Moms’ Night Out stuff,” the co-president said to me.

“You’ve known about this problem. We’ve discussed it at our board meetings,” the playgroup warden said. (Yeah, they have a board of directors and shit. They’re serious about their playgroups.) “I told you that the Wednesday playgroup is the most popular and several of our members have asked me to limit the number of members because their children become overstimulated.”

“Oh, right, I sort of remember that now. Well, isn’t there room for one more in the Red Group? Jen can’t make the Orange Group work for her schedule.”

“No, there isn’t. If I make an exception for her, I’d have to make it for others.”

“Maybe someone from the Red Group would move to Orange?” the co-president tried.

“
No one
would move from Red to Orange,” the warden said, looking horrified.

She confirmed what I was thinking: overstimulated kids my ass, this was all about the “right kind” of moms. The Red Group was obviously the “cool moms.” Suddenly I had no desire to be in the Red Group anymore.

“Just out of curiosity, how do you get to be in the Red Group?” I asked.

“It’s based on seniority. There was an original group that typically met on Wednesdays, and then we’ve added just a few to our group over time as spaces have opened up. The moms pick
who they would like to join and extend an invitation. It’s just easier that way.”

“How is that easier?” I asked.

“Because then they know exactly who will be joining their group, rather than some random person off the Internet.”

“Like me.”

“Well, it’s true that we don’t know you—or your son,” she added, like he might be the problem.

Suddenly I felt compelled to defend Gomer. “He’s vaccinated and he’s not a biter or anything like that!”

“Oh, I’m sure he isn’t. Just know that the Red Group really isn’t a place for newcomers. We’re very close, and even our husbands are close. It’s a solid group. The Orange Group is a better fit for you,” the warden explained.

“You know what? Never mind. I’m going to find something else for me and Gomer to do. We don’t need to do this.” I started fumbling with my purse to get my car keys so I could leave. I was furious. Who did this bitch think she was, telling me that her playgroup was full?

“Hold on,” the co-president said. “Maybe we could start another Wednesday playgroup? Maybe there are enough people who would be interested in having another group? Would that be okay with you, Jen? Would you stay if I could find some people to do that?”

I stopped what I was doing and I listened to her.
She
wasn’t so bad. She was actually trying to make it work, while the warden just kept saying no, no, no, no!

“I think that would be fine. I just want to find some friends for my son, and I’d prefer that it be on a Wednesday,” I said.

“Great. No problem. I’ll find some people.”

“I’m not sure I have time for that—,” the warden started.

The co-president cut her off. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

And she did.

Within a week I had a playgroup to attend with Gomer. I think we were called the Blue Group.

I was still so pissed off about the whole Red Group/Orange Group thing that I had a really hard time being nice to the warden anytime I saw her after that. It made me wonder how many other women in the group she’d treated like shit. I was lucky, because the co-president had been around to see what was happening and she took over, but I could only imagine how many times that same conversation went down in private without anyone reining in that control freak.

Why the fuck did she have to make it so damn difficult? All I wanted was to find my kid a friend to play with on a day of the week that worked best for me. What the hell? Was I getting caught up in the Mommy Wars I’d heard so much about? This was my first foray into the world of WAHMs and SAHMs. But then I realized it wasn’t a Mommy War; I’d just come across a plain old bitchy mom.

Over the next couple of years I worked my way up the rungs of power until I was elected co-president of the group. Can you guess what my first order of business was? Yup—I axed the membership limits for the Red Group and the Orange Group and the Blue Group and any other playgroup I could find. I opened them all up to everyone.

After all, I didn’t want a group going to meet hot firemen without me!

When the Hubs agreed to move to suburbia with me, his biggest concern for our future children was diversity. Or rather, the lack thereof.

As I’ve mentioned before, the Hubs is Chinese and I am not, so our kids are biracial. The Hubs was worried that living in such a white-bread place, our kids could be victims of racism and bullying.

I had spent three long, hard years going to high school in this town, and I knew firsthand what he was afraid of. Because of that, I was always on high alert looking for Gomer and Adolpha to be discriminated against.

When Gomer was three, I opened up his peer circle beyond the Blue Playgroup and enrolled him in preschool. It was a peer modeling program where half the class were peers and the other half were kids with special needs. This type of classroom was supposed to teach him leadership skills, empathy, and understanding. I had visions of his days being filled with everyone sitting around singing “Kumbaya” and painting rainbows.

I noticed all was not right one day when I picked him up after
school. Gomer has always been a child who loves to chat in the car. I find out the best stuff in the car. Sometimes I even go around the block just one more time so I can get to the end of a good story. That day was no different.

“How was school today?” I asked.

“It was okay,” he sighed.

“Just okay? Why’s that?”

“We didn’t get enough time to play outside.”

“Oh yeah? Recess is fun, huh?”

“Yeah, and this week we started a new game that we like. We didn’t want to stop today.”

“What game? Is it one that Ms. Rebecca made up?”

“No. It’s one that Oscar made up. Ms. Rebecca doesn’t even know we play it.”

“How do you play?”

“Well, we are all good guys and we chase the big dark monster.”

“Hmm, that sounds interesting. Why are you chasing the big dark monster?”

“Because he’s bad. He’s dark. And bad.”

“I see. How do you decide who the big dark monster is?”

“Oh that’s easy. It’s always Sharu.”

“What?” I felt myself jerk the steering wheel. Sharu was another peer model in the class. He was Indian and very dark-skinned. “What do you mean, he’s always the dark monster?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from squeaking.
Oh my God! What the hell, Gomer?

“Well, Oscar says Sharu has to always be the big dark monster because his skin is so dark.”

The wheel jerked again and I almost drove off the road this time.
Shit! Are you kidding me?
By this time I was in our neighborhood,
and I pulled to the curb, where I could park. I turned in my seat and faced what, up until now, I had always thought was my sweet, innocent, open-minded, unbiased child.

“Gomer, you can’t always make Sharu the bad guy,” I scolded him.

“But we have to. He’s so
dark
,” Gomer emphasized.

“Gomer! That is terrible. Tell me
exactly
how you play this game.”