I am, by definition, a preschool mom. I’m a mom and I have a child in preschool. But I’m not one of those preschool moms… You’ll know what I’m talking about in a second. Read on.
Sitting in the car line to drop off and pick up Wildman all these months has opened my eyes to the differing groups of preschool moms. You have the moms who are rushed, tired and wearing yoga pants like me. And you have working moms who talk on their cell phones in the car line then dash off to work once junior is safely in school. You have the fit moms who bike up to the door with their children in the bike trailers. And then you have the cliquish moms…
The cliquish moms annoy the heck out of me. It’s like high school or a sorority reunion every MWF morning. They pull up in their humongous SUVs. They walk their darlings in. Even though the preschool prefers for everyone to use the car line for safety reasons, they still walk. Well, it’s more of a saunter if you want to know the truth. Here’s the cliquish mom uniform: huge designer sunglasses, tank top/tight fitting t-shirt, short-shorts/tight fitting jeans, flip-flops and a handbag you could fit a car inside. They get out of the car and wave to people they know in the car line while their child runs around oblivious to moving vehicles. They gather together to chat in the parking lot after dropping off their babies. “Ha ha ha!” I can practically hear the fake laughter as they amuse one another. Ugh!
I guess I’m just not that social. I don’t feel like I have to try that hard to fit in with other moms. I have nothing to prove. Whatever it is, those chicks rub me the wrong way. I try to steer clear of them altogether. But inevitably we run into one another at birthday parties and preschool functions. One such encounter went like this: “Heeeeeeey! You’re Wildman’s mom! My son just looooooves Wildman. He talks about him all the time!!!!! Wildman is just so cute!” The insincerity makes my skin crawl because I know it is her son that hits Wildman! Wildman never talks about her son except to say that So-and-So hit me.
I guess it’s that I can’t stand being judged. They’re not speaking to me to befriend me. They’re speaking to me to do reconnaissance work for their clique. Trying to find out if I’m one of them. Well, let’s just say I’m not.
I don’t let my kids run amok while I’m trying to climb the social ladder. I don’t marry for money. I don’t have fake boobs. I don’t dye my hair. I haven’t gotten botox. I don’t “do lunch”. I don’t have weekly “spa days”. I don’t have a nanny. And if I spent $500 on a pair of sunglasses, I’d croak. TYVM!
I’m just a mom of two sons who is trying her best to raise them right. I make mistakes. I play with my kids in the backyard. I make play dough for them. We take walks, ride bikes and go to the park. I don’t have Botox but I’d like to get it one day when the college savings plans are paid off. My husband and I are best friends. I haven’t had my hair cut in months. I’m lucky to get myself dressed each day. I teach my sons compassion. I like to laugh. I like to be silly. I’m happy spending the day with my boys. I don’t need affirmation from other people. I only have one pair of running shoes. I like to read. I am sincere. What you see is what you get.
I guess you run into the cliquish types no matter where you go. I do my best to be polite when I have to speak to them but I also do my best to avoid them.
Adventures of Four 