Monday, January 15, 2007
Playgroup
Max first dipped his toes into the educational pool when he attended a program at our church for two-year olds. The class consisted of ten children from nine families. Eight of the little royals sat confidently atop the birth order throne. Six moms were pregnant again (the mother of the twins with a second set of them, Lord help her), and a seventh had a babe in arms. Some of us stayed home with our kids; others worked (and worked and worked) both outside the home and in. Elementary school teacher, professional fundraiser, money manager, journalist, physical education teacher, office manager, attorney--we were brought together by our children. But we weren't especially close that first year, at least I wasn't. When one mom suggested we form a playgroup as the school year drew to a close, I participated more from lack of alternatives than enthusiasm. How could I have known that over the next two-and-a-half years, these women would save my sanity more times than I can count? With spur-of-the-moment babysitting when I was running a sick child to the hospital. With meals when my husband was incapacitated for weeks with a herniated disk. With confessions from the toddler wars. All slathered with self-deprecation and a thick shmear of laughter.
Here's what I just didn't understand: All mothers are not the same. Even within the relative homogeneity of my little sphere, there's a broad band of parenting practices out there, from sugar content to television content. So it's reassuring and restorative to find a handful of parenting soulmates, people whom you like and trust, people who don't compare and compete, people whom you'd entrust with your kids as surely as your own mother.
That's how the group came to be at our house this morning, whiling away the hours over coffee and bagels. The kids crafted flags, loosely interpreting (deconstructing?) the flags of other countries and augmenting them with Mickey Mouse and SpongeBob stickers. They decorated gingerbread men and ate some of their parts. All 15 of us squeezed into the playroom and danced--the Twist, the Monkey and the Swim, followed by an exuberant rendition of the Hokey Pokey. Nine children played one round of alphabet bingo; the girls stuck around for a second. And between the structured activites, the kids managed to invent plenty of spontaneous fun, with Legos and construction tools and a mystery box fashioned from a cardboard box, duct tape and old tennis sock. Granted, some of the entertainment involved walls and the PlasmaCar and produced a soundtrack much like a bowling ball making its way down Lane 8. All in all, though, I judged the morning a big, messy, glorious success. For a nanosecond, I even imagined homeschooling my kids, as long as the rest of the gang promised to show up, too.
One mom called this afternoon just to share her son's thoughts on the day. His feedback was particularly poignant because this child and Max have had their difficulties. Serious and shy, he became the frequent victim of Max's aggression. As each boy worked through his own inner dilemma, the other served as his perfect psychological foil. Max struggled with whether to dominate his peers or to belong, even as the other child battled his conflicting urges to defend himself or withdraw. But today that seemed like very old news. As they arrived home, the boy asked, "Mom, if we ever live somewhere besides this house, could we live next door to Max?" Truth be told, no compliment could have pleased me more.
Here's what I just didn't understand: All mothers are not the same. Even within the relative homogeneity of my little sphere, there's a broad band of parenting practices out there, from sugar content to television content. So it's reassuring and restorative to find a handful of parenting soulmates, people whom you like and trust, people who don't compare and compete, people whom you'd entrust with your kids as surely as your own mother.
That's how the group came to be at our house this morning, whiling away the hours over coffee and bagels. The kids crafted flags, loosely interpreting (deconstructing?) the flags of other countries and augmenting them with Mickey Mouse and SpongeBob stickers. They decorated gingerbread men and ate some of their parts. All 15 of us squeezed into the playroom and danced--the Twist, the Monkey and the Swim, followed by an exuberant rendition of the Hokey Pokey. Nine children played one round of alphabet bingo; the girls stuck around for a second. And between the structured activites, the kids managed to invent plenty of spontaneous fun, with Legos and construction tools and a mystery box fashioned from a cardboard box, duct tape and old tennis sock. Granted, some of the entertainment involved walls and the PlasmaCar and produced a soundtrack much like a bowling ball making its way down Lane 8. All in all, though, I judged the morning a big, messy, glorious success. For a nanosecond, I even imagined homeschooling my kids, as long as the rest of the gang promised to show up, too.
One mom called this afternoon just to share her son's thoughts on the day. His feedback was particularly poignant because this child and Max have had their difficulties. Serious and shy, he became the frequent victim of Max's aggression. As each boy worked through his own inner dilemma, the other served as his perfect psychological foil. Max struggled with whether to dominate his peers or to belong, even as the other child battled his conflicting urges to defend himself or withdraw. But today that seemed like very old news. As they arrived home, the boy asked, "Mom, if we ever live somewhere besides this house, could we live next door to Max?" Truth be told, no compliment could have pleased me more.
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