I hate Jackson’s play group.
There, I said it.
I joined the group because (a) my mother-in-law seems to think that Jackson will grow up to be a social retard because he spends most of his time in the care of another social retard (i.e., me), and (b) my next-door neighbor already belonged to the group. It took me almost a year to warm up to my lovely neighbor, which is my problem, I know, I KNOW! I AM a social retard (or there’s a kinder word for it: shy). I like my neighbor, she has a master’s in statistics, she lets us use their sand box whenever we want. And I like one other mom in the group, she’s like the fourth Dixie Chick, she’s a kind of flaps-down, says-what’s-on-her-mind person who thinks almost everything I say is funny (at least that’s how I imagine a Dixie Chick is in person, based on a partial viewing of Behind the Music). But when I try to relate to the other moms — and these are moms with good kids who play nice — after about ten seconds of a nuts-and-fucking-bolts discussion about booster seats I am stifling yawns and blinking to keep the tears of boredom from running down my cheeks. And they sense that — they’re like dogs, really, and I am slowly being ostracized from the pack.
Which is another way of saying that I’m turning into my mother.