I’m the mom who’s friendly, easy going, and remembers your child’s name. I’ll greet you every morning, ask you about the weather, and email links and articles I think will interest you. But, unless I’ve known you for 20 years and you are part of my inner circle, that’s as far as it goes.
I don’t do lunch. I don’t do parks. I don’t do mom groups, Gymboree, Little Gym, or Musical Munchkins. I am a recluse. Imagine my horror, then, when this morning I received a call from a mom on Mikey’s soccer team. The team that started just last week. She wanted Mikey to have a play date with her son today at 1:15. Nicholas goes down for a nap at that point, so I told her it wouldn’t work…but that [gulp] Mikey would love to do a play date any time this week or next in the mid-morning.
She suggested tomorrow morning. I agreed, and started to feel woozy.
I suggested a park in the area. She said to just come over to her house. I agreed, and then passed out.
Tomorrow the boys and I are headed over to the house of a person I have known for all of 30 minutes on Saturday. Do normal people invite into their home people they don’t know? Is this what social people do? I can only assume she’s burned through all her friends and spotted me, fresh meat, from across a green soccer field. I picture the worst: me sitting next to a prized Precious Moments collection while 3 of 17 cats weave in and out of my trembling legs. Then, my hostess will remark casually that little Colin was up all night throwing up, but he was so excited for his play date she didn’t have the heart to cancel.
Indeed, I fear my hostess tomorrow is:
- A swinger.
- A Shacklee representative.
- A Scientologist.
- A serial killer.
I called the Mister to express my concerns and remind him where I keep a copy of my life insurance policy. He wasn’t as quick to make the connection between play date and fiery depths of Hell. Instead, he had the audacity to suggest my hostess could also just be a nice mom thinking about starting a book club. Yeah, right. What are the odds?