Playdate Paranoia

If you've never had the joy of experiencing this, I can only liken it to stealing that first smoke behind your parents' garage, only with less of the thrill and more of the absolute terror of being caught. Suddenly it was my turn to host the play group, and the panic set in. See, I live in an "affluent" (rich) town, in an "affluent" (rich) county, and these BerCo moms have some high standards. No one in our group has the million-dollar palace, but each home has its own touch of money. One has an exquisite living room with glossy maple floors and a marble fireplace. Another has a gorgeous kitchen with a skylight showing off a vaulted ceiling, rich tile floors and granite tops. Then there's me. I live in an 80-year-old Tudor. The battens on the outside are peeling paint, copper trim is oozing green down the side of the chimney, the original pine floors are buckling in places, not to mention the creaking that's loud enough to wake the dead (and the Bebe). House envy is an ugly thing. Add to that lawn envy, (we seriously need a landscaper to re-do the entire front yard) and you've got at least a dozen new gray hairs.

The weekend before the dreaded day, as I was on my hands and knees wiping down the baseboards, it occurred to me -- dear God, I can't make coffee to save my life! This could be the straw the breaks the camel's back. At 10 in the morning harried moms must have coffee. I don't even drink that much coffee, and I always have 2 cups during the meeting. This, is a very bad thing indeed.

I made sure to have mini-muffins (store-bought of course, what do you take me for?) and strawberries on hand, and the husband, God love him, bought fresh bagels and cream cheese the morning before PG-Day. Here goes nothin'.

PG-Day. The Bebe is cooing in her crib, so I rush downstairs and vacuum (and not a cursory vacuum, I'm moving furniture around here), pull out cups and dishes, then run back upstairs to feed the Bebe. She goes back in the crib, I hop in the shower, get out, give the Bebe a bath, then dry my hair -- we've got 20 minutes to go. Run downstairs, carefully arrange strawberries and muffins and bagels cut into quarters, hit "On" on the coffeemaker. (The husband has once again come through and set the thing up for me ahead of time). Sit down to give the Bebe her oatmeal, and the frickin doorbell rings. One of the moms is way early. Fabu. So everyone arrives, remarks on how much "character" the house has, how they love the open floor plan, yada yada yada. So we eat bagels and mini-muffins, drink coffee, and chat about mommy stuff...2 hours flies by and suddenly I'm closing the door and the house is empty.

Remember when you lost your virginity? Hosting the play group for the first time was kinda like that. A whole lot of buildup and anxiety only to end up saying "That's it!?".