Fitting In Where I Don't Think I Belong

Over a year ago, I signed up for an ECFE class with Oliver.  Working full time, I was excited to have something special to do together.  And hey, I'd learn stuff about parenting, which is a bonus.  Many friends will start out sentences like this:  "I found out from my pediatrician the other day- oh, well, you probably know this, but-" and I stop them right there, because sadly, my specialty is not healthy kids.  When it comes to immunizations, potty training, heat rash, discipline techniques and nutrition?  I'm clueless.

I will admit that before we walked into the Moon Room of the community education building, I was nervous.  I had this idea, or a fear, rather, that the other parents would be pretentious, cliquey, condescending mothers who either ignored their child or thought their kid pooped gold, and hired a full time nanny so they could shop for window treatments.  I didn't think I'd fit in. 

I sat next to a parent who looked very friendly, exchanged hellos, names, and ages (of the kids), and looked around the circle.  Um, they all looked friendly, actually.  There were no exclusive conversations.  They all played with their kids and took interest in everyone else's.  Huh, I thought.  This might just work.

The subject content of the weeks that lay ahead reassured me that maybe I didn't really need the class part of things after all.  "What does it mean to bond with your child?"  "What kinds of toys does your child like?"  "Why is it important to read to your child?"  Don't get me wrong, I'm sure that the curriculum is just fine, and I still advocate for ECFE in general- I think our teacher was a little, well, simplistic. Okay, she was old, too. But hey, the Moms were cool.  And, like, not too cool.  On the last day of class, one of them passed around a list for everyone else to write down their e-mail addresses.

That list cranked out a few e-mails organizing a playdate or two, a few questions seeking advice ("anyone else having a terrible time getting their kid to brush their teeth for more than 7 seconds?!"), and eventually, a Facebook group to organize it all.  A proposal for meeting monthly, without kids, went out:  "Let's create a card-playing club," someone suggested.  I thought this was a great idea...except for the fact that I am not a card-player.

I play Uno.  Oh, and I play Uno well, mind-you- I have a gold tiara with the label "Uno Princess" displayed on the front.  I own no fewer than seven different versions of the game.  But other than that, I don't play cards.  Not out of principle; it just doesn't interest me.  Which I know has really disappointed Michael, who practically came out of the womb playing Poker.  His family is always playing something involving a 52-card deck.  I sit and watch, or run after the kid, or bake some brownies.  Because learning at age 32 will not make me a great player, or even a slightly fun one, to a family that considers a full house something you hold in your hand. 

So I have not shown up for a monthly Card Club night for quite some time.  The first and most recent time I went, it was because we were just meeting for pizza at Old Chicago, and I know how to eat pizza really, really well.  Somewhere during our dishing over deep dish, someone mentioned the irony of the name "Card Club."  And suddenly, it dawned on me.  "Wait, you guys don't actually play cards?" I asked, with a little too much excitement.  They laughed.  "Uh, we thought about it for about 2 mintues on our first get-together, and we decided that we weren't going to do that."

I threw my hands up in the air.  "All this time!" I exclaimed.  "The food I've missed!  People, I don't play cards.  I'll see you next month!"

And so tonight, I happily piled four-cheese pasta on my plate and discussed nuances of potty training and tantrums with my friends.  So here's to the Card Club, where I can actually follow suit.