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THE FAMILY GROOVE’S RESIDENT MOM-ENTATOR, SASHA Selfish Mommy Flies the Co-op
In my family, there is a legendary story about my father, a lawyer prone
to shooting his mouth off, and how he once ticked my pediatrician off so
royally, we were asked never to return.
Something about not serving people as ungracious as us, I believe.
At 8, the story was more mortifying than anything, but now? It kind of makes me laugh. And that is a good thing, because it seems that Sam and I have a new story for the family scrapbook.
This month, mommy got into a brawl at the co-op preschool.
Truth be told, I should have known much earlier that this was not the place for us. I like to think of myself as the best kind of liberal (and also not a bit conceited). I believe in gay marriage, abortion rights, higher taxes for more social services and farmers markets. But I don’t make it my religion. I try not to preach (too much), and I get a big old kick out of mocking lazy people in bad clothing while eating Twinkies and non-organic strawberries. I also like high-end fashion and occasionally buy things that are (gasp) not on sale and (double gasp) for me and only me.
Does that make me a bad person? Possibly.
But I also like to think it makes me unique and multidimensional. What it does not make me is cut out for a co-op in the city that invented hemp shoes, bicycling everywhere and thrift store shopping.
I am also a writer—not a stay-at-home mom exclusively. I like my career and I am willing to sacrifice some time with my children in order to earn my own money and my own intellectual stimulation.
Also? I am terribly selfish.
This is not to say that we could never do a preschool with a co-op component, but in this case, it was too much work. The monthly “cleanups” were met with my husband’s disgruntled question: “Why the hell don’t they just hire people to do this? That is worth more than my four hours.” The weekly work hours were dreaded days in advance, and my co-op job as “curriculum manager” took the few hours per month I should have spent pitching, writing and working on my own stuff.
This co-op was not working—for our family, anyway. But it was still the brawl that made the final decision.
The short story is this:
There was a meeting on Wednesday night (the night before my official work day). Sam had been playing outside in 80 degrees and felt warm to the touch—this after one mom e-mailed that her daughter had croup and another that her son had chicken pox. The “fever” was 100.4 rectally. I e-mailed the co-op moms, asked for a swap and said I was skipping the meeting for two reasons: 1) I did not want to go to the meeting, and 2) I was convinced Sam was getting the plague. Big mistake. As it turned out, Sam’s “fever” was not actually one. She woke up the next morning smiling and 97.1 degrees. So, I brought her into school with me.
The official rules in the “Co-op Rules” book state that 101 rectally is a fever, but all the same, the next day when I showed up for work, I was shown the door by one particularly paranoid (and surly) parent who I had always kind of disliked anyway. This woman actually yelled at Samara, saying things like, “If she stays, I am leaving.” My sobbing 2-year-old clutched at my leg and begged to stay at school. “Why can’t I stay, Mommy? Why can’t I stay?”
Never mind that I had not actually broken any rules and that, in fact, it was the rigidity of these women and the inability to listen to my explanation that caused the brawl, but this treatment of my child took my breath away. What kind of miserable person yells at a toddler like that? What kind of person does not even try to listen to the reasonable explanation?
And the kicker? Some of the other moms actually sided with this insane woman. The next few days were a whirlwind of sanctimonious e-mails, he said/she saids and finally an accusation that I had lied about Sam’s fever.
In short: These people be crazy, yo.
To be sure, I liked many of the people in this co-op. There were some who had great children and very supportive attitudes, but there were enough “bad apples” to make me pretty confident that returning to this co-op next year would be hazardous to my (and my daughter’s) health even though (sob) she kind of loved it.
And now? I am seething with guilt. Why?
Because I want to be the kind of mom who loves a co-op, the conscientious mom who bakes cookies (ha), occasionally cleans the house (um, nope, never) and does laundry more than once a month (the five baskets of semi-clean clothing in the basement attest to the likelihood of this).
Instead, what I am is a mom who really enjoys “me” time and who aims to get it. I know it is taboo in the mom world to say this. But I will pay for the privilege to run five miles, get a pedicure, keep up with my hair trimming and get my work done both with cash and with time lost with my babies. It is just how I roll.
I would like to say “I don’t do guilt” with respect to these things, but I do. Constantly. I feel guilty that I could not get along with the co-op moms even though I know I never get along with everyone. I feel guilty that my first response was to mock this woman’s appearance (in my head, I swear, but even still), and I feel guilty that I am torn between helping myself and helping my children. The kind of mother I want(ed) to be is clashing with the kind of mother I am.
Why is it selfish for us to want these things? It would be easy to let guilt dictate how I parent, to skip the gym, to stay home when I want to see my friends. But I refuse. I refuse to martyr myself and give up so much when I already give up too much already just by the nature of being a parent. And so I feel almost constant guilt.
The truth is, I think we all do. But instead of supporting one another, we are met with brawls (like the one I had with the preschool mom) and sanctimony like my mother was 15 years ago when one of her friends said smugly (after the babysitter she left me with fed me alcohol and pot at 14), “I would never leave my kids with a sitter.”
To this I say: Whatever. Sanctimony is easy when envy takes the wheel.
I guess this is what the “mommy wars” are all about, this clash between wanting to do everything for our children and wanting a little bit for ourselves. And what this episode has reminded me (like so many others before it) is that I need to put my oxygen mask on first. I need to be happy before I can make anyone else happy.
And if the price of that happiness is a little bit of guilt? Well, I can live with that.
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