Fears II
The busy mother who ran from me at the day care appears to have triggered some pretty deep fears about assuming the over-aged Mom role for these 3 orphans. I look around the earnest young and busy women in the parent circles with me and see the fulfillment of the Jane dreams spouted the women who bought my sexual favors as a child. I donae know but I do believe *their* intention was to guide me toward being a player in that dream of feminine empowerment. My engineering career might even be a tribute to those dreams, but I still credit my gentle grandmother far more than the agressive Janes who founded the exotic sex clubs.
The mothers I am encountering in the daycares and elementary schools mostly look like empowered Barbies to me. The busy mother who ran from me is Barbish enough for a magazine cover. Everything seems to be sexual harrassment and rape to these fluffy baracudas. Did the daycare mother find time to visit a sexual harrassment lawyer during her flight? Will I find yet another round of lawsuit lotto waiting for me at the daycare counter? The mothers I must affiliate with for the sake of these children terrify me far more than the thought of parenting teenagers in my 80's. I have to go through these golden pussies to make "play dates" for children? Can I go back to running construction crews now? It really does sound much safer and tamer. Far and away more honest. I doesn't wanna hear your busy blues, Barb. The children are our only common bond. Keep your pussy in your pants, my good woman. Your alleged non-toxicity, too. I ain't your mama. I don't give a flying fuck how much I remind you of her. I ain't interested in doing your laundry for you. I might bake you some cookies if you quit thinking with your little head, though. A female "little head" is quite literally even smaller than a man's "little head." Much smaller. No amount of political correction has the power to change that biological fact.
As my obssessive thought loops continue to spin around this ONE woman, up close and NOthing personal, I am working to calm the generalized fears behind the obssessive thought loops. I donae know the names or strictly personals of any of the other women in the parenting circles any more than I know the name of the woman who ran in a flurry of white lies and pretense. "No" is the more efficient answer in my own strictly personals and I am quite proficient in using it. Should the dialog continue, I will give the more efficient answer on the tip of my steel toed shoes. I amnae expecting the dialog to continue, unless you count the Busy People Ignoration as a form of communication. Have a busy day, dearie.
I amnae yet looking for solutions to this conundrum. I am *simply* working to identify the fears which have been triggered by the nothing personal rejection. I donae believe I will be ready to look for solutions until I have quit indulging strictly personal fantasies of steel toes in Mean Girl asses. This isnae about me or any of the other empowered mothers in the gridlock. ^It^ is about the children.
Works in progress. . .
The good news is that I am doing well enough at containing this psychotic chaos between my strictly personal ears that our little ship of fools is held its course through yesterday's basketball game and after play. Big Sis did okay playing with her brother's friends. So I pray. . . Who really knows what is going on inside a four year old heart?
Replies
Oh, arfie, you're taking me back to when I was a day care center teacher at the day care for a big state university. Every day I sat with the parents and chatted with them, mostly at the end of the day as they came to pick up their kids. It was interesting.....
The Day Care Industry was still young back then, Muji. The morning busy buzz at the daycare centers has grown the rigidity of traffic gridlock since my ES son attended. YS never attended daycare. If the buzy bees in the 21st century rendition talk to one another, I was looking the other way when it happened. I suspect my experience with the running mother is typical for those who dare to break The Sounds of Silence. As recently as the 80's childish social lives were as *simple* as having a home door which opened to the neighborhood kid packs. Today I find I can't remember the last time I saw children playing in their own suburban yards. much less across the street from their front doors. I am beginning to believe the CPS workers who demand helicopter parenting are now the cultural norm. I thought it was because we were dealing with the extra-oridinary circumstances of childhood trauma here. There is always something else to learn, huh?
But then. . . I don't participate in the evening rush, either. The daycare staff tells me I am their newest sign that the end of working day is in sight. The sisters are the first kids to leave at the end *their* busy days. The Horehound School Train picks them up from daycare right after it picks up Big Bro from first grade.
Hugs and support my friend.
Your situation recalls the experiences with both my eldest & youngest children.
My eldest went to Montessori since 3 until we moved to Germany when she was just starting 5th grade. I was 20 when I had my eldest and was the youngest parent at the Montessori. Most of the parents were in their 30s up to late 40s and I always felt so intimidated by my age when around them.
There is 8 years between my eldest & youngest so when my youngest started making friends her own age, I became the oldest parent in our group. Once again I found myself feeling awkward and out of place because of my age versus those of the other parents.
Just memories.
Support, hugs & love, Arfie
Yea, and that was a few years age diff. Now try decades age diff. . . I'm older than the oldest member of the staff by a pretty good margin. I was officially retired when all this started, after all. Had been for years.
I may forget to curb my combat training reflexes with the next middle-aged woman that tells me I remind them of their mother. No, jackass, that alleged resemblance doesnae get you free babysitting. Ain't paying your rent or buying you date nights, neither. I've yet to have a man pull that cutesie on me, but the women who do always seem to look young-at-heart desperate. PTSD Barbies? Grow up, Toots. Your mama ain't here. **WE** will decide how much we have in common ****IF**** we ever meet. Middle-aged mama hunters arenae on my trusted source list.