So remember how I said I went to the children’s museum the other day. Well I did. Those 2 kids that I took both happen to be sick now so there’s some fucking karma for you.
Shows me what I get for doing something *other* than staying home.

But I really didn’t share what I encountered at the children’s museum.
And that is what I hope to do today.

This particular museum is smack dab in the heart of Portlandia, so you can imagine the kind of mothers you’re bound to encounter in a place like this.
Yes, their hair is messy, yes their clothes are dirty, yes they’re staring longingly at your kids’ goldfish crackers because you KNOW their parents only buy them weirdass farmer’s market bran biscuits because the parents are raising them BETTER.
And no one raises their children better than the mother with 1 child.

I have the honor, the very privilege!, of sitting next to a group of perfect mothers. I learned a lot.
(Actually I mostly learned how irritating I must have sounded until I was fucking demolished by the storm of humbleness that comes with being outnumbered by children.)

Now this is all 100% eavesdropping.
They did not speak to me.
Not true: I actually asked one of them how old their kid was and she answered in months. (Through thorough finger counting and diving by the square root of pi I determined that her child is almost 2. Same as my littlest.)
But I was only worthy of that much information because after answering she promptly turned her back.
Perfect moms are polite, too.

So there were several of them. But the main mom, the Talker, was by far the most verbal. There was also the impressed Listener and meekest one, the one I briefly talked to, the Shy one.

Talker was a talker! I gathered that all their kids were about 2 give or take. & they all were geniuses.
Thank god for that.

Listener & Shy had their kids on their lap and were struggling with keeping them happy and fed. There were grapes and clean sippy cups and organized lunch boxes and all the food groups were met.
But all the wiggling and snacking was clearly an annoyance to Talker, who was fucking sharing some pearls of goddamn wisdom to these distracted bitches and she did not like the pint-sizes distracters. 
Like when Listeners son was trying to eat a grape whole (wtf??? What lazy ass bitch didn’t cut their kids’ grapes? Christ. Talker was displeased with this.)
So Talker had to stop talking about her son (the genius) to instruct Listener on how to properly feed your 2 year old a whole grape. (“bite & pull” apparently.)
But all this cut into precious talking time!!

Talker went to lunch with her son! He knows all his animals! He knows their sounds! He sings the ABCs! They brush his top teeth, then his bottom teeth! He eats all his vegetables! He takes a 3 hour nap a day! He sleeps through the night! He shits gold!!!
It went on…..and on….

Listener listened for a long time and then finally, after hearing enough, delivered a Oscar-worthy retort: “That must be nice for you.”
I almost gave her a standing ovation.

Shy fucking sat there like a dead fish.

But Listener, omg, for that second I loved her.
Like, jesus h christ, lady, give it a rest!
No one gives two shits!!!
But they were clearly a playgroup of some sort. Because after the bragging (which is a sin, right? Is it a sin? It should be.) came negotiations for the next playdate.
((sidenote: why does autocorrect want me to switch playdate with playmate? I think it thinks my life is a lot more exciting than it really is.))

There was finger painting ideas thrown around. Listener has the standard colors but Talker has the upgraded set with Magenta. She’ll bring those. Plus she has 2 smocks!!! She’ll bring those, too.

I am an exaggerator, I know, but I SHIT YOU NOT. Talker said both “upgraded” AND “magenta”.

But finally Talker finally had enough of staring at the 2 wriggling ill-mannered beasts sitting across from her and suggested that perhaps it was naptime for the kids. Listener and Shy quickly agreed to that and started to pack up with promises for next time.
Talker left soon after with her gold-shitting magic prince of a child in tow. With all her praise you’d think her son would look like Ryan Gosling while wearing a crown of chocolate, but no. He looked a lot like a 2 year old. Albeit a well dressed one.
I was left alone at the table to think.

Was I that woman? Was I that horrible mouthy arrogant bitch? I’m sorry if I was. Take that sorry and fucking bronze it because it likely won’t happen again. But I really hope I wasn’t like that. I’ll be the first to talk to shit and admit I don’t know it all. Advice? No thanks, but I’m happy to compare short-comings. 
I hope that woman finds herself with a second child soon, knee-deep in shit and feeling humble, even if that shit IS gold.