I wind my way down to a circle of benches near the swing set. Five women are clustered around one of the benches with coffees in hand. To my surprise, all of them are wearing high heels, and one is even wearing a white (white!) silk shirt with leather leggings. They all have perfect highlights, manicures, and huge sunglasses on.
How do they run after their kids in heels?
I glance around for their kids until I see another group of women in jeans and comfortable sneakers with a few toddlers. They’re all surrounded by top of the line strollers. Evans bought me one, but it was so expensive I returned it. I prefer the swaddle anyway.
Wait— do they all have nannies?
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I approach them. I can tell they’re all eyeing me and my outfit behind their sunglasses. I cover Alfred’s head with my hand protectively.
“Hi, I’m Ciara, and this is Alfred,” I say, smiling at them. One woman waves politely while the others glance away. “Am I in the right place for the mom group?”
“Yes,” one sniffs.
“Are the nannies dropping off the kids?” I ask. I’m out of my element here.
Do the moms play with their kids at all? Why is there a cheese plate on the bench?
The lightest blonde with cat eye sunglasses answers. “The nannies are always here. We need someone to watch the children while we have a Mom’s Day Out. I’m Heather, by the way. This is Cindy.” She points to a tall brunette wearing wedge booties. “Karen,” she says, gesturing to the woman wearing white sunglasses and a jumpsuit. “Melissa.” A woman wearing dark jeans, a Gucci belt, and thigh high boots waves at me. “And Lauren.” A honey blonde, she has on a white floral dress and a pair of expensive looking stiletto heels.
“Melissa was just telling us about her personal shopping experience last week at Bergdorf’s. Do you shop a lot?” Heather asks.
“No, not really.” I shrug.
“So, Heather, how was your cycling class?”
Heather launches into a story about how some celebrity was in her cycling class, but she totally wasn’t starstruck.
All of them nod like they’ve experienced the same thing.
“I had to fire Yolanda yesterday,” Melissa announces like she’s dropping a huge bombshell. “She polished the silver with the wrong polish and that was the last straw after getting the wrong kind of balloons for Cammie’s birthday party.”
The other women gaped at her. “No way, she sounds out of control.”
The wrong kind of balloons? Is it like a cardinal sin or something?
“She said that Cammie scratched her when she tried to get her to do her athletic playtime, but I don’t believe her. There have just been too many disasters.”
Heather asks. “Didn’t you say that some of your jewelry went missing once too?”
Melissa nods smugly. “I had a feeling about her, I knew it.”
“Should we go play with the kids? Maybe play some music or something?” I ask.
Cindy—I think—huffs and looks at me in my jeans and sneakers, holding Alfred. “You know, this group is really for us to catch up, not for us to hang out with our kids, hence the nannies. If you want to run around in a mulch playground, maybe this group isn’t for you?” She says this like it’s a question, but it definitely isn’t.
I nod. “Yeah I think I’ve made a mistake.” I turn around and walk back towards home, kissing the top of Alfred’s head as I go.
That woman was so rude. What kind of parents join a moms group just to do everything but parent their own kids? And who gets pissed about something as simple as freaking balloons? They seem so shallow. That isn’t what I want at all. And I hope Grace’s group isn’t like that. I don’t see her being part of something like that at all.
I’m so distracted I don’t hear the sneaker foot fall behind me, and suddenly someone crashes into me from the side, jostling my ribs and Alfred who wakes up from his nap and starts crying.
“Oh my God, dude, watch where you’re going!” I snap, still stressed out from the mom group.
“Ciara?” I turn around fully at the sound of his voice. Oh my God, it’s Luis, the guy I went on a couple dates with while I was in school.
Luis is in a tank top and basketball shorts, with sweat on his brow. He looks exactly the same, except you can tell that he’s filled out under his tank top. His biceps and pecs look amazing, and to my embarrassment, I have to concentrate on his face. He’s smiling at me.
“I thought that was you!”