Dirty Little Secret

When I grow up, I’m going to stop caring what people think about me.

It would be one thing, I suppose, if I worked really hard to fit in and make people like me. But I did that in high school and I’m kind of over it now. It would be one thing if I didn’t already have friends. It would be one thing if I was running for office.

But I’m not running for office. Hell, I couldn’t even handle being a class mom. And let’s face it, if I was trying to make people like me my blog probably wouldn’t be a constant bitchfest about stupid people and/or why my children are more awesome and more challenging than average. I would probably repost those status updates on Facebook that describe how awesome my mother and my husband are.

If I wanted more people around here to like me, I would probably spend a lot more money on clothes. I would also probably remember more people’s names. Oh, and I might stop talking so much (look, I don’t get out a lot. I get a little excited.) Maybe I’d even be more patient when the woman ahead of me at the grocery store has to run back through the aisles FOUR times to get stuff she forgot and then pays with PENNIES (although you’d think refraining from punching her would make me likable enough).

But I’m not in high school anymore (Even though I have theory that life is really just a big version of high school, the lack of blue eyeshadow and the presence of wrinkles should be enough to remind me that actual high school, is, in fact, over). I would rather spend money on my family. And clearly I’m not going to grow out of this bitch phase. The patience for others is not going to magically appear.

So why does it bother me so much when people don’t like me? Especially if, as is generally the case, I don’t like them either. Is it just because my WASP background makes me believe that dislike should be buried so far under politeness that you can never even be sure if it’s really there? Like these people are disrespecting me by being so obvious about it?

Or is it because at heart I”m still a 13 year old girl (and the fact that I actually get more zits now is just a little young-at-heart bonus)?

My little Lovebug

my precious Ironflower

so easily hurt

I’m not an overly sentimental parent, really. I remain calm in the face of falls, cuts, scrapes and bruises. Hysterical tears are more likely to get on my nerves than arouse my sympathy. I have given away more baby clothes than I have saved. I always seem to forget the video camera.

But when we were at  the library this week watching a children’s entertainer and Lovebug couldn’t get a partner for the dancing part (possibly because he kept going up to kids and grabbing them) I almost burst into tears. And every time Ironflower asks a new kid to play with her at the park – and that kid says no or taunts her, even – I have to restrain myself from calling that kid names.

My kids want to play with everybody. They’re not above grabbing toys or trying to get to the front of the slide line, but they’re prepared to like everyone they meet and they don’t hurt other kids. And I love that about them, except when I watch them get hurt. Last fall, two little girls Ironflower wanted to befriend called her a baby and kept running away from her. She still talks about it, even as I’ve said over and over again that those girls were rude and not the kind of kids she would want for friends. Until the library incident this week, Lovebug hadn’t seemed to care if someone didn’t want to play with him. But he felt it at the library when he was the only kid who didn’t have a partner.

I taught public school for ten years. I’m not unaware of how cruel children can be to one another. And I was prepared for it to happen someday – I had watched sweet as pie kindergarteners turn into Queen Bee fourth graders too many times to think that my kids would never feel hurt or rejected. But we’re talking about 2 1/2 and 3 1/2 – and other kids the same age. This didn’t happen when I taught preschool fifteen years ago. And if it did, parents stopped it. Now the parents are just as bad.

So, internets, do you have any advice? I can’t control the behavior of bratty children (or their parents), so how can I help my kids forget about the jerks they meet and just focus on the nice kids? How can I explain to Ironflower, as she looks longing at the pair of five year old girls she wants to play with (who keep running away from her), that she should just play with the nice little boy next to her? And how can I stop myself from talking to these kids as if I was their (ticked off) teacher?

Imagine that you see a tallish person wearing a teased wig. The person has orangey-red lipstick and eyeliner that looks like it was done with a Sharpie. The person is wearing black pants with gold pinstripes, a tight black t-shirt and a black jacket with rhinestone buttons and a fur collar. Clear plastic heels adorn the person’s feet.

Now imagine that you are seeing this person walk into the playground where your children are playing.

Do you think, OMG, there’s a drag queen at the park! Maybe she’ll want to be friends and I won’t have to hear the tenth birth story of the morning! Maybe we can go to a gay club over the weekend – I’ve so missed them. What will I wear?

Maybe that’s just me.

But wouldn’t you get a little bit of a thrill if a drag queen (and his/her grandchild) showed up at the playground when you were bored to tears?

Now imagine that as you get into a conversation with said drag queen, you realize that she has no Adam’s apple. And her voice sounds naturally high-pitched. And the child calls her, “Grandma”. And to your horror you realize that this “drag queen” you wanted to befriend is just a woman with really, really, bad style.

Do you still attempt to make friends with her, or do you casually wave as you go to your car?

At least I smiled as I waved.

I am a member of Meetup.com. It is how I found my mom’s group and my book group – it is basically the source of my entire social life. And though I’ve met some great people through those meetups, I’m still searching for the PERFECT meetup. The one that’s called, “Sarcastic Moms who like to blog, read and watch football, have a tight budget and only fit into their fat jeans.” Or maybe, “Funny Women who are comfortable swearing, drinking beer and wearing sweatpants in public.” Or possibly even, “Smart women who can talk about more than where they shop but still love trashy reality tv.”

So far, no one has started one of these groups. And because I haven’t entirely embraced my dorkiness, I am afraid to start one of these groups for fear that it will be listed and have the dreaded member number (1) next to it.

So I examine the manifestos of other groups, hoping to find another group with semi-compatible people. The newest mom group is The Hip Mamas. “Am I too hip for my mommy friends?” asks the group. Uhh. . .I don’t think so. I’m sure there are a few mommies on farms in Wyoming that I may be too hip for, but generally I’ve given up describing myself as hip. (Is ‘hip’ the cool word again? I had no idea.) Most of the groups that look like fun (besides the other mom groups, of course) are for singles.

So how am I supposed to make friends? Anyone got any ideas? We’ve been here for nearly a year and all I have are acquaintances.