I’ve been suddenly thrown into momland and am a bit unprepared.
When I lived in the city, I would walk to the supermarket and bump into all sorts of people who didn’t necessarily have stretch marks and slings. There were students and freelancers and store workers and dancers. Often the dads had shifted their schedule to do the playground thing a few times a week.
In my new, very traditional town, the men go off to war leaving the women and children and old people behind.
Between towns, there’s a lot of variation of this mom culture. Working class, Irish/Italian-Americans reside in my Bighaired Town. They take their many children to St. John’s on Sundays. The little girls in pink with large bows affixed to the tops of their heads. The boys with their hair shaved short and large white sneakers. After church, the dads watch football wearing team sweatshirts.
I don’t have a lot in common with the other mothers who wait with their kids for the bus in the morning. But they’re good people, and I get them.
I don’t get the mothers at Ian’s preschool. Ian goes to preschool two towns away. There is some serious money out there. Mansions and horse ranches. This is where Nixon retired after his disgrace.
One mom confided in me that she lost 3 million in the stock market last year, but that didn’t seem to break them. In fact, they are in the process of building a new, better home.
They come dressed to pick up the kids in three inch heels and forty minute hair. I’m not quite sure if they expect to see Brad Pitt at the pre-school or not. Hint: he’s not there. Who puts on lipstick to pick up a two year from school? Nobody sees you. House to car to school to car to house. Why bother? Then there’s me with a black t-shirt, ripped jeans, and clunky shoes.
I’m not blending very well yet in my Big Haired Town or the Loaded Town. And the cloistered mom thing is stifling. I think I’m going to look at the Chronicle for Higher Education’s job page.