It's almost Monday night, a night I often look forward to. I belong to what I once thought was "The Perfect Playgroup", a splinter faction of the more organized post-birth classes I attended over the summer. We had an alternating schedule: playgroup one Monday, Drinks Out the other Monday. Then, as more of us decided that returning to work sucked and we would return to being stay-at-home moms, there was some consensus that playgroups every week would be great.
However, that being said, someone needs to get on the stick because we haven't been out for a drink in WEEKS.
I have to tell ya, I look forward to that night. Not that I can't drink at home (oh, but I can and I do), but because this is usually the time that we aren't distracted by our babies and can actually let our hair down and connect. Which can be difficult when we're all playing referree over who gets to suck on the Whoozit or stuffing their little mouths with pureed winter squash and ensuring that the teething babies don't use the other babies as teethers. Oh, and making sure that, when we were done nursing, we actually remembered to put our boobs away. No one wants to be known as that spacey, slutty mom, although I've been told that a little scandal would make me more interesting.
In any case, as nothing was planned, I proposed meeting for a slice of pizza and a beer up at American Dream, right around the corner. Food and drink... and no takers.
Ladies, I've gotta tell ya--I'm so disappointed. It's not about getting trashed, but about not getting into a rut of looking trashy. It's about having a reason to look forward to an evening, and needing an evening to look forward to.
Sheesh...what's a lady gotta do to have a night out around here?
I'm proposing a Mom's group that exclusively gets together once a week or so for some time sans famiglia. I'm asking for people relatively content with life (no big whiners-- I'm not running a post-partum therapy group here) who would just like a reason not to wear those ratty old yoga pants all day and to wash the crusty apples and apricots out of our hair. To wear something besides sneakers with pulverized goldfish crackers in the treads. To go out among peole who find our cleavage, um, novel.