The other mommies are making fun of me again. Most days they just snicker quietly as I walk up to the Mommy corner. (That’s where all the stay-at-homers meet for walks. The Nannies meet at the park, and the rest of us (meaning me) wander around by ourselves.) They think I can’t tell what they’re doing but I know. They’ve been making comments about my clothes. And lately they’ve said some of them out loud.
It’s not like I’m wearing anything much different from what they’re wearing. Comfy pants, knit tops… they’re all very similar. I can’t help it if I like colors and tailoring. They already disapprove of my parenting philosophy – mainly because I don’t have one and didn’t research any while I was pregnant or read any of the parenting philosophy books. And I heard the chorus of snide remarks when I stopped breastfeeding. They got downright snippy when they found out my son scored nine on the Apgar test even though I never gave up caffeine. But they really, really disapprove of the fact that I’m still buying clothes for myself. They find problems with everything, especially the shoes.
“Well, aren’t you spiffy today. That’ll look better with a few stains on it.”
“Those aren’t very practical, are they?”
“You can’t run in heels. What if your child needs you?”
“I heard about a little boy who tripped over shoes like that and the heel sliced through his jugular.”
I try to explain to them, “Sure you can run. You just have to practice. And the heels will break off before they slit anyone’s throat.” But they won’t hear it. I just don’t know what to do. I had no idea clothing could affect the well-being of my child. I’ve already given up my legion of black tops (shows formula terribly you know – once I tried pinning a brooch over a formula stain but they said I might put out the baby’s eye). Apparently the only acceptable clothes are sweats and athletic shoes (I seriously have not owned a pair of athletic shoes since 12th grade gym), with the occasional twin-set thrown in for a special occasion.
So yesterday, I caved. I thought, well maybe if I wear some loungewear they will finally let me walk around the block with them. I wasn’t going to change my shoes though, you have to draw the line somewhere. I pulled out my best cashmere hoodie and running pants with the kitten-heeled mules, an outfit that coordinated beautifully with the romper my son was wearing I might add, and trotted down to the corner.
They looked at me like they wished I would die.