It crowd reprise

My two year old daughter and I missed our regular Tuesday Mommy and Me class, so we crashed the Thursday group. The teacher introduced us to a perfectly pedicured posse of women and their toddlers, all festooned in designer garb. Not so much as a grunt in our general direction. Throughout the ordeal only two women spoke to me, and both were dressed as schleppily as I. Where the others learned that the trappings of wealth breed contempt is beyond me. Growing up, the people I knew with real money were always the kindest, most unassuming. The families were always welcoming; none of the moms had jewelry dripping off her, trendy fashion was declasse (well, beyond the vintage Mercedes). Seemed the more they had the less you'd imagine. So with my worn jeans and ratty t-shirts, we must be rolling in it.

What the...?

It was bound to happen. Our son was busted for saying "hell" in school. Twice. How can I reprimand him for saying something he got from, well, us? We suggested alternatives: heck, gosh. He said they're taboo as well. Apparently an affront to some deity. My spouse mused, "how about what the f...?"

So I ask, what the hell are we doing sending him to a secular, private school, damn it? Oh, poppycock, balderdash. Another example of what's said at home stays at home.

Playdate from Pergatory

I thought I was a neurotic, overprotective mother, but discovered a few weeks ago I'm down right negligent. I actually allow our seven year old to play outside on his own. We allow him to read Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Captain Underpants. He can go to the bathroom without parental supervision....

Not so with a recent playdate. When I told our son the mom would be joining us, he whined "why can't you just tell her we don't have any guns in the house?" I had, to no avail.

It's hard to let go, and we afford our son his independence (or illusion thereof)over ever watchful eyes. I worry, though, that his pal, a smart kid undeniably double knotted to the apron strings, is destined to become not the next Bill Gates, but Ted Kaczynski.

Ah, but there is hope for him yet. I assumed the boys were holed up in our son's room playing Star Wars. Turns out they were reading some books that are apparently banned in the other fellow's home. Had to applaud the boys for that one.

I blog therefore I am?

A recent article in the Sunday The New York Times Style section about blogging stopped me in my tracks. Seems there's a sub-culture of "mommy bloggers." Who knew? They attend conferences about branding blogs and endorse products. The whole thing reeked of desperation and had me wondering, am I desperate? I'm not seeking seeking fame, fortune or free bees. In fact, I don't know if anyone other than my one follower --and a big shout out to my friend Heidi for that-- is even reading this blog. I blog for a creative outlet, as I'm more compelled to keep writing if I think there may be an audience. I blog to prove my existence to...myself. I blog because Fargo Eferdito rides again.

(In the interest of full disclosure, neither Lands' End nor Tretorn influenced my March 8 post regarding my beloved tennis shoes.)

Lenten Special?

'Tis the season when I contemplate giving something up for lent --to show camaraderie with my Catholic brethren. But I want to make a grand gesture. Say, give up shoplifting or heroin. Something really big. Forty days without chocolate or swearing doesn't seem to emulate the suffering. I mean, was Jesus thinking, "damn, I wish I had a Snickers"?

Passover too evokes a similar response. Does a week without bread make me a better person? I can attest that the only thing eight days of matzoh makes you is constipated. I envision the ancient Jews wandering the desert for 40 years in search of an apothecary that carried Ex-Lax.

For my money, I'll stick with the pagans. So bring on the Easter bunny (or beagle), let's color some eggs and go for a hunt.