This morning in the shower, I had a revelation. It didn’t make me feel better – or worse, but it’s allowing me to shed some light on what – exactly – my problem is.
The other day, I had this sort of awful experience. I hosted a playgroup at my house, then I stressed about kids snacking in my “playroom”. I didn’t say anything as each event occurred – the first time, because I cared about the person and didn’t want to embarrass her, the second because I think the person is a little low rent and knew she’d get snippy. The third and fourth infractions, I added to the reasons of the first and second – although one person was different.
Then I looked down. And saw a cookie smudge on my ottoman. A bottle of water belonging to one that another had snatched. Frosting. On hands. Raisins, on the rug.
I freaked.
The funny thing is, it’s not as if my house - or things – are House Beautiful. Architectural Digest isn’t coming here. My décor is limited, and my room, of all the rooms we play in, is the one most obviously a playroom. And, the other mothers who host, have clearly – if not better – more established, and finer rooms. I say that with no envy or longing (I point this fact out as it’s going to relate to another blog post).
The simple fact is, other mothers are seemingly fine with food in their common room – and I am not.
Around 4pm, I finally broke and intercepted a sippy cup. Of all the children, of all the mothers, the person whose child I took the cup from is both – likely – the one I am closest to, as well as the one who stands most on ceremony and manners. She is the last person of the our group to engage in anything remotely indecorous. Added to that, she’s the one I knew first.
Perhaps, subconsciously, I thought that she would be the one who I could be clear with. Or perhaps I had just had it. Regardless, I took the cup and said “Actually, this isn’t ok with me.” Now the mother had no idea that for hours I was pissed. How could she? I never said anything. But it was to her, at her, I snapped. And she glared at me. She was, and remained, pissed until she left. My day, and hers I suspect, was ruined.
I’d like to hide behind the fact that in the email invitation, I stated that no food was to be eaten anywhere but the kitchen. I issued the invite, and wrote that clear as day. But I deviated. Had I stopped the first mother, the second would have asked. Had I stopped the second, the third would have known. Had I given housekeeping notes when people arrived, it wouldn’t have happened at all. But I didn’t do those things. So I blame myself.
That night, after the playgroup, I felt sick – and awful. My stomach churned, I felt flushed, I had an anxiety attack. There were tears.
At 9:50 – really too late to call anyone – I called the mother. I stammered out an apology. She was terse. It was bedtime for her, and she was still annoyed.
The next day, she, who talks to me every morning at 7am, didn’t call.
As the day went on, I still felt awful. I’m never hosting again, I thought. I don’t need friends anyway, I soothed myself. Still and all bludgeoning myself because it was my fault.
Yesterday afternoon, we finally spoke.
I apologized again. "I’ll be honest" she said, "I was pissed." I murmured a reply. "When I went home, I said to my husband, never again. I’m never going to anyone’s house again." I eeked out another apology. "But I got over it," she said. "I wasn't going to say anything at all, until you brought it up. I guess I’m more laid back about those things."
Her husband asked if our house was “that nice?” – she diplomatically replied that it was on par with their own. Well, to me. To him likely she said not as nice, because, to be honest, it’s not. But she’s not going to say that to me.
Then she said to me “I guess the thing is this, if you are going to host at your house, you have to expect that you are going to clean up afterwards. I mean, they are children, what did you expect….”
I continued to apologize. She said finally “No, I was mad, but I decided to let it go."
But the funny thing is. I know she didn’t. Because you can’t. Making new mommy friends is the same as establishing any other relationship. And these are the fractures, these are the layers. Do I truly think she’s going to “let it go”? – no. I know she isn’t. She’s going to never ever let her child have a cup of milk here - ever.
Which I think is unfair. Because she's attributing motivations to me, and feelings to me, which aren't mine. She's making an assumption, based on one event, without validating the root cause. And now I can’t let it go. Because now I’m a little upset too. Because while I was apologizing, while I was profusely prostrating myself, I neglected to feel something else. Maybe a fraction of indignation that SHE hadn’t apologized.
Here’s the thing. Any one of those children, one on one, could have eaten anything they wanted if if were just we visiting. But in a 12x12 space, with furniture, toys, 5 mother and 5 kids, no one can see everything. And shit was EVERYWHERE. So when I saw a child poised to bang her sippy cup on the ottoman, with droplets of milk spewing, you know what? Playdate expectations or not – I lost it. I can’t clean that up. Milk stains. And maybe everyone can sit there and tell me I’m fighting a losing battle. The homes are meant to be lived in, loved in, and that having children means having a trashed house. Fine. But let me come to that conclusion. Let me decide that stains are a part of child rearing. But I don’t want to forever sit on my chair and see rings of milky sugar stains that I didn’t create - and resent the hell out of your child. Because I will.
“They’re only things” you may say. That’s right. They are only things. That I value. Right or wrong.
I can handle seeing Ellie's wooden puzzles sucked on, gross as that may be. I can handle dirt on the floor, or food on the highchair. I can handle vomit on the rug. Those things are part and parcel with having a playgroup. I can’t handle frosting on a teddy bear, cookie on the chair, and ground raisins in the rug. That just doesn't work for me. And maybe, maybe AFTER this first time I'll relax. Maybe I'll rethink it - whether an ottoman is worth a friendship. Whether having a playgroup is more important then asserting my rights. I'm still working that part out.
Part of me, most of me, is sorry that I hurt her. I am truly. But there's this little piece of me that's hurt about the lack of quid pro quo where she would say “You know what, I’m so sorry too. I didn’t read the email, and I just assumed it was ok based on the other folks eating. I WISH YOU HAD SAID SOMETHING SOONER. Why didn't you?”
Blame me. Fine. I can take being blamed. Gladly, freely. Judge me? Ok. Call me uptight. Mock me? Behind my back all you want. But I’m, I don’t know - angry? ambivalent? upset? - about being ungraciously forgiven for something that I believe was a mutual error.
aha!!
I'm none of those things.
I'm sad. I'm actually sad.
I'm sad that as a friend she doesnt appear to be concerned with my feelings after the fact.
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