Wow

Raising my child in a city arena has it’s perks and it’s plummets. To have a multitude of cultures as a backdrop is outstanding, but to be surrounded by moms that fidget with every growth fart of their child really erks me! Back in the day, my generation pretty much raised ourselves, so to see mom’s fret and boast over every progression freaks me the eff out. It’s bizare. I understand the need to compensate for our childhood, but do we have to handle our children like fragile faberge? Honestly. I sure as hell don’t, thus my frets are null to void. For instance, I am bombarded daily with nonsensical emails from mom’s groups with subjects that read, “Margarita Mondays” or “Playdate 5/5 at 1030am” or Beach Day.” I think the only reason I’m a member is possibly because I’m into self infliction. I get the premise of a parent group, I do. I know it is all jealousy. I am bubbling with green as I sit in my office as the string of emails buzz like wildfire, resulting in the tightening clench of my teeth.

Which brings me to my question, "where's my parent group?" The weekend warriors. The Wednesday night cocktails mixers. The full time moms that surrendered all nine to five memories to a responsible nanny. I want to sip cocktails with fellow cohorts that share my experience. I’m all about the playdates and comparing notes. At the same time, I would like to balance it with a pleasant social environment that doesn't involve whining, bitching, or boasting. I enjoy being a mom more than anything in this world, thus the continuous aching of my heart while I’m at work. Yet, where do “I” fit in. Perhaps, there are a few stragglers that are wondering around like me. Maybe, I just need to grow up and give in. Maybe my frets are not null to void, but alive and brewing. Until I discover the ideal shoe that fits, I will not sit still.

This is Shellie seeking aimlessly for the perfect nitch back to you Bob at the studio.