Elmo and Friends

Last week we had a lunchtime rendezvous with Elmo.  It was Alyssa, Natalie, and I, along with 20 other toddlers and their mothers.  Elmo, the diva that he is, was of course late; which resulted in 21 toddlers competing for an Oscar for most “unnecessary dramatic meltdown” in a playhouse cafe.  But, I suppose, if  you plopped 22 women in a room with the chance to meet Oprah or Dr. Sears, they probably would be shoving each other out of the way with their Vera Bradley diaper bags and Medela breast pumps.

I find it so hysterical how mothers treat each other.  I actually swear, some must think that their baby came out of a 10 karat birth canal—like Indiana Jones is on a mission to find the “Golden Uterus”.

This was the second time I ever went to this place during “playdate hour”.  Think 5 o’clock happy hour but with Starbucks Lattes, Dr. Brown sippy cups and once again, that damn giraffe, Sophie.  Anyways, I knew Aly would love to see Elmo and I secretly wanted to as well—I mean, who hasn’t watched Sesame Street and fell in love with Elmo’s world and his pet goldfish Dorothy? 

So, Elmo was late, and the girls were hungry.  Aly was so amazing.  In the midst of all the children,she stayed right next to me (Natalie was in her carseat).  The place has a playroom for toddlers and she wanted to play in it, but also wanted lunch (where Elmo would be).  It was a lot  for her.  It was a lot for me.  It was chaotic.  And, well, if anyone knows the diva, she does not handle chaos well. 

So, of course, the tantrums start, which ignites Natalie to copy her big sister and she, as well, starts the waterworks.  This all happened in the middle of the room too—not discreetly in a corner or near the exit where I could have swiftly scooped them up and leave.  I have a toddler pulling on me and trying to make herself throw up by coughing for no reason, an 8 month old crying and stiffing her body, making it almost impossible for me to get her out of the carseat, two diaper bags on my shoulder and about 9 mothers staring at me like I just gave birth to a unicorn.  

Not once, did any of them offer to pull a chair for me to maybe finally sit Natalie down, or give a nod and a “oh hunny, we’ve all been there” look to ease my growing embarrassment.  They all just stood there watching, their Abercrombie babies on their hips, all of them (the babies) were already reading from Kindles and IPhones and talking about the upcoming election--I’m a bit surprised they even had the time into their schedules to spend a half hour with a giant furry red monster.

I was drowning, and fast.  Then, out of nowhere, a miracle happened—a mother actually came to my rescue.  There she was, sitting, watching me, her two year old throwing his mandarin oranges on the ground, her 5 month old sleeping next to her.  And so calmly, so casually, she said “I see your babies are close in age—isn’t it just the best”.  I turned up, shirt almost ripped off of me thanks to Aly, and pretty sure experiencing hot flashes equivalent to what a menopausal woman experiences and say to her “it’s the best”.  She laughs, gets up, hands me a chair and clears off a table for me to rest my bags and introduces herself.  “Hi, my name is Michelle.  This is our first time here to see Elmo.  I’m here visiting my family, my husband and I live in Louisiana, but he’s currently serving in the military”.  (Side note—can I just say, that military mamas are so wonderful.  I have many friends who are military wives/mamas and they have this amazing strength and unbelievable courage).

 I introduce myself to her, we share close-in-age stories and help each other out when Elmo finally makes his appearance (she’d watch my bag while I clean up the chocolate milk that Aly decided to pour all over her white shirt, and I watched her little girl, while her two year old refused to let go of Elmo’s leg).  It was simple, it was short, but it was sweet.  It was sweet of her to see me, another mother, in distress, and instead of just staring at me like I was a circus show, she offered a helping hand.

Women need to stop this insane competition of “mom wars” and thinking they are superior than another mama. Stop it already. 

Show me one mother who hasn’t examined their body for “tiger marks”, or hasn’t experienced that moment where, all of a sudden, something funky is happening in your shirt, a feeling of pins and needles and next thing you know you are looking down to see two bulls eyes of wet spots.  You can hide behind fancy things and make society think you’re all that and a bag of chips, but c’mon, you know you pee a little when you sneeze.