Skip to main content

(S)mothers Come in All Shapes and Sizes

The Rabbit started her first day of summer school yesterday. We walked her over -- me, The Prince and the Rabbit, to her class, and saw many of the kidlets that had been in regular school during the year.

Most of the children though are of the group I don't know that well -- the ones with the arty mamas, the mamas with shaved heads, black clothes, emaciated frames. The ones that love to snub.

Let's get some background here though -- Although during college I followed the straight and narrow, majoring in science, a pre-med geek through and through, somewhere during my second year I "freaked out" as the rabbit would put it, and shipped myself from Cali to Gotham where I enrolled in a fairly well-known film school and yes, shaved my head, took to wearing black all the time, and became a slightly emaciated, self-described "artist." I spent my early twenties working in the "business" and thought myself somewhat cool.(Cue the snickers.)

While it didn't take an intervention to cure me (And I still wear almost only black as Mothers readers know...and yes, like to think of myself on the creative side...) I did begin to get kind of bored of this new clique having found it so easy to be absorbed just by a change of clothing, hair style, and major -- like any clique, really.

It's something I had hoped would pass by the rabbit -- after all, there are always those kids who manage to rise about the cliques -- who manage to be accepted by all groups at once. The uber kids. The ones who "don't give a shit."

Which is what I thought I was. Which is what I had hoped I was. But here I was yesterday morning, now with a full-head of hair, now wearing some color (does brown count?) trailing after the downtown doyennes with their hip black jeans, trying to smile and make small talk only to get dropped faster than a pocket-protector wearing PhD. And yes, I cared. So much for transformation.

I guess you can ship the girl to Gotham, but you can't (completely) undo the geek.

Comments

Emily said…
Haha. Dear me, people ARE strange.

I joined a music group here for kids. No one talked to me for 4 months. I'd smile at people and they'd blank me. Very strange. Then one day my daughter was playing with someone else's child and I got let in. It was great and I still meet them all once a week.

You know the weird part of motherhood is being confident in yourself and doing a demanding, successful job for years, only to be relegated to that team picking embarrassment at school sports time when you have a kid and have to meet other mothers. Nothing worse than being left on the sidelines.

I hope they get their heads out of their arses and talk to you. Or a large dose of karma to them...maybe an unexplained gain of 5 pounds overnight?
Let me tell you about my Auckland mama experience when we stayed there for a while when Firstborn was a baby. They might not have been hip (too much Gucci) but they sure were skinny and boy were they snotty. They didn't want me in their gang, and to be honest, I didn't want to be in theirs. But it would have been nice to have had someone female and above the age of consent to talk to for the few months we were there (sniff)

I guess some people are so insecure and (let's face it, pathetic) they can't see beyond their own particular brand of uniform...

Popular posts from this blog

Apologies for being incommunicado this week and hope none of you out there are too distraught not to be receiving the usual almost-daily MotV missives. The reason for the silence is that I'm up to my neck, metaphorically-speaking, in research papers for my first grad course assessment. This experience has made me realise how rigorously un-academic I am in my thinking. It has also illuminated how reliant I am on red wine in order to get through endless evenings typing furiously on my laptop, not to mention the fueling of increasingly colorful curses that I feel obliged to aim at the University's online library system which consistently refuses to spit out any of the journals I'm desperate for (I refuse to believe this is 100% due to my technical incompetence...)Oh well, if this is the price one has to pay in order to realize a long-cherished dream then it's not all that bad... No one ever said a mid-life career change would be easy. Wish me luck!

Recommended & the Mahiki dance-off

My GFs and I went to Mahiki last night, great fun as usual but made me feel a bit old; it seems that Thursday night is the playground of the just-past-pubescent. Oh well. Good tunes though, so whatever.In between taking over the dancefloor - the youngsters may have youth on their side but frankly that shrinks to insignificance in the face of two decades of clubbing experience - one of my GFs and I got into a conversation about why so many people are full of bull.It appears that many people we come across are content to live their lives in a superficial way, skimming the surface of what life has to offer and equating the ownership of stuff (cars, houses, boats, jewelry, designer clothes) with happiness. They converse in terms of status, strut their possessions as a measure of their own self-worth, take themselves far too seriously, are quick to judge others, easily annoyed, complain a lot about very little and their worries seem to far outweigh their joys. Personally, I think all that…

Champix

Following on from the realisation that my lungs are filthy and if I don't give up the smokes soon I face a life of wheezing at best, off I trotted to see the charming Dr T.

Dr T, who's charming by virtue of the fact that he's less jaded than the other doctors in the surgery (in other words, he treats patients as if they're human beings with a right to NHS services rather than annoying fraudsters trying to gain sympathy for imaginary illnesses) promptly put me on potentially habit-forming drugs to get me off the evil weed. Something doesn't feel quite right about this but since I'm so pathetically grateful to have a doctor who's willing to give me more than two seconds of his precious time, I have acquiesced to his demands.

Anyway, this wonder drug is called Champix and promises to have me merrily chucking my smokes in the bin in no time. Or it will if I can get past the possible side effects, the highlights being abnormal dreams, nausea, flatulence, snoring, …