See You Next Tuesday: Vol. II, No. Nine
On Finding Jeans that Fit, Crop Tops for Work, Being Hormonal, and more.
No one ever asks my husband to attend Sloane’s 10:00 AM music class or what time gymnastics is or if he can dip out of work early on Friday for pool time or a park visit.
No one.
He is not expected to know or attend or participate. But relatives, caregivers, friends, the other mothers whose children attend the same activities, the SAHM neighbor who needs to fill an empty morning time slot, have all asked me. Often.
When my nanny first told me that she was having trouble with the other parents at one of Sloane’s classes, I went to get the lay of the land. The other mothers (and one SAHD) shared stories and snacks and birthday party plans. They all ignored my nanny and my friend’s Brazilian au pair. They were the help. As a result, the children they care for cannot sit at the cool kids table.
And so, I have to attend these inconveniently time classes as much as I am able so that other mothers (and the one SAHD) can check me out and trade phone numbers for play dates and feel like I’m the right kind of working Mom. You know, the one who works in “insurance,” and never clarifies that she’s an insurance defense attorney. The one who still makes time for her daughter between depositions and Teams meetings and reading 1,200 page client files. The one who is working at midnight while her husband sleeps to make up for the lost hours, praying that she can hit her 2,000 hour billable requirement while packing snacks in decorated Bento boxes and scheduling park time over her lunch “break.”
My daughter’s future social opportunities depend on my gracious and enthusiastic attendance. Otherwise texts go answered and play dates are cancelled last minute. They can see the nanny sometimes, but my smiling face is the one that pulls in the birthday party invites.
Sloane’s father is but a name mentioned in passing, a ghost. No one questions it. His presence is not required.