Since joining the ranks of the
"bathrobe executives", as my husband affectionately refers, I've noticed
how seldom I socialize. So, when I received an invitation to host this
week's Mommy and Me playgroup meeting, I jumped at the chance. Not
only would I be chatting with fellow mothers without the aid of a modem,
but I would also be spending quality time with my daughter.
Julia, seven months old, was in no mood for company. She had been fussing
over her teething trauma since breakfast and her surly attitude wouldn't
win her any Miss Congeniality points with her little playmates. Surely,
with a little ingenuity and a dropper of Tylenol, I could manage to get her
down for a morning nap. No luck, she would have nothing to do with
sleeping. That is, until twenty minutes before the mommies and babies
came knocking.
So there we sat, gathered in my living room -- six moms and five babies.
I felt a little like a party crasher, but there was no way on earth
I was going to wake that teething-induced demon child who was finally resting
peacefully in her cradle. Should I pull out the home movies?
Photo albums? Birth certificate? I assured them I indeed had
a baby and belonged in the group. The explosion of Fisher Price toys
in my living room offered more than enough proof, but I felt the need to
convince them further.
Most of us had never met before, so we started with brief histories and bios
about ourselves, our families and of course, the dreaded birthing stories.
We sounded like fishermen; all trying to top the others' life threatening,
touch and go 36-hour labor tale.
After losing the "career" competition to a gal with a Ph.D. in Child Psychology,
and the "Martha Stewart wannabe" category to the lady who brought homemade
designer baby food for the children to sample, I wasn't about to lose the
" my labor was worse than your labor" lightening round.
I told an animated tale of chaos and mayhem surrounding my sudden, yet
excruciating, onset of contractions. I explained, in great detail,
how my husband pulled out of the drive and halfway down the street before
realizing he had left me behind. I illustrated how labor was progressing
so rapidly that I nearly delivered in the elevator; and how my husband fainted
at the sight of the episiotomy needle, fell and hit his head on a bedpan
(knocking himself unconscious), but luckily, was given an adjoining bed in
my post-partum room. I captivated them and silently prayed none of
them were Nick at Nite fans and could possibly recognize my combination-birthing
story, stolen from The Flintstones, I love Lucy, and a few other sit-coms
I dare not mention.
They bought it! I held a prestigious position in the labor Hall of
Fame...for about 20 seconds. That's when my 12-year-old popped up with
her "That sounds like what happened to Wilma and Fred" remark.
So, I didn't walk away with a blue ribbon in labor endurance, impressive
career title, or the swim suit competition. I even lost my dignity
while performing a double back handspring during the talent portion of our
get acquainted program, but I learned a valuable lesson. There's nothing
like an embarrassing social faux pas to make you buckle down to work and
appreciate the anonymity of telecommuting.
About the Author:
Kellie resides in central Illinois, is married and is the mother of six children.
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