Playing with the preschool moms

Tonight, I am getting some time out with a few moms from Lil E's preschool class. We're using this very cool literacy fundraiser event through the organization Open Books as an excuse opportunity to get together, have a few drinks and dish about kids and (ex)husbands and whatever else spills out after a few cocktails.

As you may recall or may have conveniently blocked out as I once hoped to, I have sort of a rocky track record with the other mothers in preschool. As much as I loved Lil E's old co-op, a band of mamas there were not so happy to find the old blog and then to read that I referenced events that took place there in a not-so-reverent manner. I personally thought my posts were hilarious (hey, someone's got to keep that fantasy breathing) and even if it was a Christian establishment, that Jesus would be just fine with a little eye-rolling. Regardless, we've moved on from that co-op (which did, for the record, serve as a bright and happy and safe and wonderful place to begin the preschool journey) and the neighborhood and no longer have to endure the uncomfortable, forced smiles from the parents who believe I am doing Satan's work by putting up pictures of my child and saying the word "fuck" all within inches of white space on the screen.  To that transition, I can only say "Hallelujah!"

Now, Lil E's at a new preschool that is the perfect fit for our family, and is a place where I am just as thrilled to get to know new moms as he is playing and learning with his new friends. So tonight, I will do a bit of that, hanging with some women who I've already laughed with, shared professional resources with, and am talking about a nanny share with this summer. I'm excited.

And might just hold off telling them about my blog.

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More evidence of which team he'll be playing for in the future

After putting on jammies and before stories and prayers and songs, during a quick game of Pinchy Bottom (yes, it's all very intellectual and Word World-like around here), Lil E grabbed my booty back (hey, all cheeks are fair game).

And then came the reflection upon life so far (or life, half way to second grade).

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" This is how I know something profound is coming.

"Yes, baby?" This is how he knows I'm on full alert for that profound stuff.

"I like your booty because it is big and soft like your boobs." And there it was.

"Ummm...thanks?"

So maybe next time we just go straight from jammies to stories, huh?

In case you're wondering: I know, I know. It appears as if the child is obsessed with boobage. This is absolutely possible. It's also possible that I focus on the ta-ta stuff because I am just so glad to have the reprieve from constant boy-part conversation.

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Making my way through the panic. This time through sausage and shopping

I am better. Not completely, not calm. Not writing any love letters to my boobs. Not sitting in the Zen garden with my shoes off and my head resting lightly in a bed of flower petals, but better. When the scary thoughts come, a thousand "I'm OK" thoughts greet them and kindly escort them out of my brain in what I am choosing to believe is the best way to be Eckhart Tolle-ish without actually reading Eckhart Tolle.  And when that doesn't work, I am stuffing it all down with cured meat and retail gorging.

You know what? It's working miracles.

First of all, salt is really good for you. And by that, I don't mean that crazy stuff about how the salt air (as my dad says) is "nature's neti pot" or how it boosts your immunity or is the cosmic parallel to painting a school classroom pale blue. I mean, sucking the salt off of a pretzel must have some tangible healing powers. Or at least distracts you Kosher crystal by crystal until all that anxiety is lost in the puffiness under your eyes or how desperately you need to unbutton your jeans.

Today, I'm taking my salt in the form of this delicious Pinot Grigio salami I picked up this weekend. I originally got it because I was having a friend over and thought it would be perfect to put out with herbed mozzarella and something dry, white and drinkable from Oregon.Instead, we had a few beers and called it a night, giving me the opportunity to "snack" on this salami for the following two days. You know what I've found it is best paired with (for healing purposes, of course)? Why yes, flat bread crackers generously slathered in sea salt.

Second, I am quieting my mind by centering on the meditative cha-ching cha-ching cha-ching of the cash register at Anthropologie. This store, this ridiculously expensive and sweetly retro/peasant blousy store, is where I am pretty sure I am meant to balance my closet full of J. Crew preppy-flair pieces,  Ann Taylor "investment" items and Target clearance clothing. Oh, how I love their flirty dresses and perfectly-fitting pencil skirts, especially when they are crammed into the sale room at the back of the store. I also got these snug and sassy jeans that were spendy, even on sale, and worth every single penny and sanity point. Believe me, a lot of fear is forgotten when you see your own ass in a pair of designer denim. (Let's just pretend for the sake of further healing that the picture to the left is, in fact, of my ass. After eating all that salami).

I am not sure what's next for my on my journey to wholeness and sweet relief. Possibly a marathon of The City, maybe a prank phone calls to my irritating downstairs neighbor with the clicky shoes and kids who run like wild horses up and down the hallway until midnight. Maybe it will be shaking all that ass to Carme Electra's strip-tease workout (if you can ignore the knee socks and pigtails, it's really quite good...honest).  Perhaps I will just buy more tight jeans and snacks I pretend to serve to other people. Whatever it is, as long as it feels good, I'm doing it.

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