Dear Fellow Mom at the Playground,
Please stop.
Oh, I know you mean well. You’re trying to be a good mom. In fact, you are a good mom. That’s the problem. Your enthusiasm is killing my buzz. See, I’m a mother, too, at the very same park with my 4-year-old, but I’m here to stop mothering. The playground has a gate, and the asphalt is covered with rubber mats. If I can’t turn on my iPhone and tune out here, I don’t want to live.
Don’t mistake my disinterest for neglect. If my son really hurts himself, I will be the second person to jump off the bench. (The first will be whoever taps me on the shoulder and says, “Is that your son bleeding by the swings?”) Until then, I’m getting work done: e-mailing, posting on Twitter. And look at all these podcasts in my queue — all those Marc Maron commentaries don’t listen to themselves.
So, I don’t appreciate you rushing to the sandbox every time your daughter cries. Actually, I’m insulted. If pulling out one earbud and yelling, “Figure it out, Mom’s busy!” is good enough for my son, why isn’t it good enough for yours?
I’m starting to think you’re a snob.
Please sit down. On the bench, like a grown-up. There you go. Isn’t this nice? Two mothers, sharing a space, parallel texting. Heaven!
Wait, where are you going? Back to your daughter so soon! Oh dear. Is that a BPA-free plastic shovel in your hand? You know, my mom used to say, “One man’s litter is my child’s toy.” Just before you arrived, I passed this wisdom on to my son when I gave him a Starbucks cup I saw wedged under the slide. The trash can’s loss was our gain.
Ah, you’re back. I beg you, remain still. Look, our children are playing together. I agree, they’re adorable. And you caught it all on video! And you’d like to send it to me. You’re so sweet, I almost feel bad for giving you a fake e-mail address. But not as bad as I feel for whoever uses “[email protected].”
Oh, look, you’re busy again, rummaging for something in that large cotton bag of yours. Is it a book? A newspaper? Or is it … a box of organic apple juice from Whole Foods?
Oh.
There you go to the sandbox again, just in case your daughter is thirsty. Turns out she isn’t. Gave it back, untouched. Aw, I feel you, mom. All that effort, for nothing. You know, there is a child’s water fountain around here. It’s free, that water. Also, children can walk over to it, by themselves.
You’re back. (But for how long? Look how cynical I’ve become.) I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been taking your splits. You’re averaging just 30 seconds of repose between mad dashes to your child. I’d like you to bump that number up to, say, 25 minutes.
You’ll need tools. An mp3 player, headphones, a pen and—-
What now?
You’re standing. Rocking. Staring at the sandbox like a sea captain who senses an iceberg on the foggy horizon. What do you see that I don’t see because I’m not looking?
Ah.
Some kid just dumped sand on your daughter’s head. Well, not some kid. My kid. (“Some kid” is what I call him when people are looking for me.)
Is this a bad time to point out that a coffee cup holds more sand than a shovel? Sorry. I can tell you demand action from the child’s mother. A dramatic leap off the bench, followed by a stern lecture.
Unfortunately, the mother is unavailable. Buried deep inside me, that exhausted wretch is taking a much-needed nap. If I wake her now, she’ll feel terrible and guilty and spend the rest of the afternoon like you. Darting, fretting, frowning.
If you don’t mind, I’m going to handle this my way.
“HEY! KNOCK IT OFF AND SAY YOU’RE SORRY!”
See how easy that was? Even though I’m seated 25 yards away, I can tell my child’s apology was as heartfelt as any by a 4-year-old. Now, look at me. Still got my gadgets in my lap, and my place on the bench.
You can stop, you really can. Look, here’s my number. My real number. I would be happy to sponsor you. Any time you feel like mothering, day or night, call me.
Affectionately,
The Other Mom on the Bench
