The Queen's Rambles

I’ve generally calmed down in my old age. I don’t get so ragey anymore. I rarely want to punch someone in the face. Hahahahaha.

No. Really. I’ve learned that everyone has a journey and they might be going through something hard. I try not to judge based on a random interaction.

Really! Why don’t you believe me?

I’ve almost retired my fantasy face punching tendency.

Then Elsa and I joined a horrible mommy and me class. Ugh.

We’ve been going to these classes for over a year and for the longest time they were my very favorite hour of the week. There were other moms to talk to and it was delightful to see her hang from bars, listen to directions, and thoroughly enjoy herself.

When she turned 2 1/2 I had to switch her out to a class for older students. The class itself is great. It is developmentally appropriate, well thought out with the perfect balance of social skills and physical skills presented by well trained, happy leaders. It would be every bit as wonderful as her old class if it wasn’t for the posse of bitches that bring their super speshul snowflakes and refuse to supervise them or follow the rules.

Did I say I want to punch them in the face?

Scratch that.

I want to do a super ninja spin kick and plant my foot right in their ugly faces.

It’s not every mom, of course. There’s a group of about six moms who all seem to know each other. They all wear velour sweat suits, though only one of them ever looks like she goes to the gym (not a comment on their weight–they are all super skinny. She is the only one who comes in with sweaty hair and no make-up). Most of them have perfect, flat ironed hair, a thick patina of make-up spackled on their face, and huge rocks on their fingers.

They sit or stand around in a circle, talking so loudly that we can’t hear the instructor. They do not chase after their children. They do not make their children take turns, share, or be kind. They pay no attention at all, except to make sure their kid gets extra turns on the trampoline.

Last week one of the ladies brought in her older son. There’s a rule that no siblings are allowed in the class, so the older kids sit and do whatever it is their parents bring for them to do. It was Christmas break last week so I made sure Erik had his DS and a packet of math problems. He was desperate to come play with us, but I pointed out the sign that said “No Siblings on the Carpet” and he was ok with it.

You can guess where this is going, right?

Asshole mom let her speshul snowflake asshole son into the play area. He was “helping” his younger brother. I was about to explode with anger. The instructors were just whispering and not doing a damn thing about it. I should have said something, but I hate to be that person, but someone needs to be that person. Why didn’t I make a stink instead of stewing inside?

Afterwards I thanked Erik for being so polite and following the rules. We had a talk about how people who don’t follow the rules might not get in trouble right away, but other people don’t like them and eventually they will need help and no one will want to help them and they won’t have any friends.

Of course, this kid is probably from a wealthy family, so maybe he’ll just be a complete jack-hole his whole life because his parents allow it and sycophants cater to them. At least I can be proud that I am raising polite, articulate, good little people.

But I’d really love to ninja kick that mom right in the face.

Today was another bad one. I can’t pin-point anything specific, it’s just the whole hour of these kids running wild while the moms stand around and don’t do their jobs.

I think I’m going to have to give up my Thursday BodyPump class and start going to the Thursday class. I may not build up any muscle, but at least I won’t have a heart attack out of anger. Today I was so enraged that I felt tears burning in my eyes. I don’t cry when I’m sad, I cry when I’m angry. I just hate them. I don’t care what their major malfunction is. I don’t care if their husbands are cheating on them, they are pressured to look fancy, someone tells them they need plastic surgery. They are horrible people and they don’t even know it. They think they are such hot shit. Ugh.

Ok, let’s focus on something positive.

I booked Elsa’s birthday party! She’s having it at her favorite place on earth and all I have to provide is a cake. They have two people running the party, so I don’t have to do a thing but flit around the adults and make sure everyone feels welcome. It’s going to be brilliant.

Now, for the tricky part–figuring out the guest list. It was so much easier when I just had Erik and all his friends were only children. Now those same families have a kid Erik’s age, have a kid Elsa’s age and often have a kid in between. So the question becomes do I leave out the older siblings and just have it be a 3 year old party? That’s my preference, but when they are good friends of the family it gets tricky. Of course Erik will be there

(hogging the show, I’m sure, though we will have a talk about that), so he needs someone his age to play with.

I hate the politics of birthday party invites. It gives me such a headache.

I do know one thing. I’m not inviting her whole playgroup. That will be rough since I’m inviting part of her playgroup, but I’m certainly not inviting a racist bitch to the party. There’s a couple of others that we are not close to either and I don’t think they really merit an invite. Can I trust everyone to keep their trap shut about the party and not post pics all over FB? No? Oh well. People have to learn that they don’t get invited to every party, right? No one cares, right? It is just one less present they have to buy, right?