How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane (14 page)

Anyway, it's possible that the occurrence of this mathematical improbability has created a statistical vortex, one in which we are virtually guaranteed that this plane will land safely. So thank you, former passenger of seat 1B, wherever you are, for saving our lives with a single well-placed heave.

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PLAYDATE IN THE PARK: AN ODE

A day at the park, 'twas like any other

for a young(ish), sleep-deprived, bored-stiff new mother

 

I'd answered a Craigslist ad based in my 'hood

for a play group that sounded like it might be good.

 

“Bring yourself and your wee ones on down to the park

for a two-hour playdate; starts 10:00 a.m. sharp!”

 

We schlep to said spot, snack bag firmly in hand.

I plunk the kid down in the box of foul sand.

 

Then plop my own ass on a bench near the gate,

fix my hair, check my teeth, and await our play “dates”!

 

The playground gate opens, the first to appear

is a mom, her four kids, and two tons of kid gear.

 

She's a
Go-Getter Mom,
texting as she speaks.

She got more done this morning than I did this week.

 

She talks without stopping, can't get in a word.

I said my name twice, though there's no sign she heard.

 

In a minute come more folks, one cute little tot,

and with him his
Sexy Mom,
dressed weirdly hot.

 

In stilettos, a half top, and low low-rise jeans,

she “JUST GOT VAJAZZLED!” then shows what that means.
^*

 

Next up comes a mom who smells like a bong.

She came with a friend, they're the
Party-Girl Moms.

 

That one pours Kahlua through her Starbucks lid

while the other one keeps losing track of her kid.

 

I'm feeling uneasy, not to be a dick,

I'm thinking I'd like to get outta here. Quick.

 

But I can't leave just yet, my kid's having fun.

I'll stick it out twenty more minutes, then done.

 

From a sleek minivan
High-Achieving Mom
comes.

Her “Lean-In” success makes me feel like chewed gum.

 

She's got five under-fives, and has three PhD'ses

Why, just yesterday she cured three diseases!

 

Between her twin tots, spoken languages: nine.

It's clear their IQ's are much higher than mine.

 

Here comes
Neat Mom,
dressed in white ethereal,

dunking her kids in gel antibacterial.

 

Her sons are so spotless, such perfect grooming

for toddlers, it's hard to believe they're human.

 

More mommies arriving, good Lord they keep coming.

Each one less my speed, I'm increasingly bumming.

 

That's the
Shitty Kid Mom,
and oh, how I pity her,

cuz bad as her kids are, they'll only get shittier.

 

Her daughter's pure nasty, the kid's always scheming.

Her son's even worse, I think he's part demon.

 

There's
Sailor-Mouth Mom,
who in between fussing

with her newborn baby, just cannot stop cussing.

 

She's tossing out “f-ck” bombs and “sh-t” bombs away.

“C-sucker,” “d-licker,” “eff me in the A!”

 

Hippie Mom
of patchouli she smells, to high heaven,

while breast-feeding her kids, ages nine and eleven.

 

As I scan the faces of this mommy throng,

it's totally clear to me, I don't belong.

 

I suppose I could flee, run fast as I can,

leave the child behind, in the cat box of sand.

 

But this problem extends past this day, and beyond.

Seems I've ruined my life giving birth. I've signed on

 

to a stream of mom friends to whom I can't relate.

S'pose I'll have to just suck it up, accept my fate.

 

When in walks a mom with a girl my kid's age.

She sits by herself; I decide to engage.

 

Her kid's not annoying, plays nice with my baby.

The mom seems quite normal, I start to think maybe

 

that this one's the
RIGHT MOM,
she's much more my speed.

She's sarcastic and funny—she reminds me of me!

 

I have visions of lunches and weekend playdates

where we'll hang out and talk about moms who we hate!

 

I find myself feeling relieved and relaxed—when she ups and excuses herself sorta fast.

She wrangles her kid, says she's late for a date, and pushes her stroller right out of the gate.

 

I ask for her number; she says, “That's okay.

I've got plenty of ‘mom' friends. Thanks anyway!”

 

And away she goes, without another word,

I must've looked shocked, like I'd eaten a turd.

 

A hand on my shoulder, I can't recall which,

with a voice that says, “HOLY SHIT, WHAT A BITCH!”

 

“FUCK HER!” says Sailor Mouth Mom. “AND FUCK HER REJECTION.

“YOU'RE NOT HERE FOR JUDGMENT, OR HER SEARCH FOR

PERFECTION.”

 

“A MOM'S DAY CAN BE SO FUUUUUCKING MIND-NUMBING.

WE COME HERE FOR SUPPORT, AND TO BE FUCKING WEL-COMING!”

 

Though Sailor Mouth Mom has an odd choice of phrases,

I am stung by her words, and the point that she raises.

 

So with her sage input, a new point of view,

and a vow to be less judge-y, I join the crew.

 

Cuz this is where ALL moms—me too—can belong.

So I introduce myself to the vajazzler.

And the chick with the bong.

*
VAJAZZLING: the application of rhinestones and other gem stones around the vulvar area. See also: “SERIOUSLY?!”

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