I am too scared to go to a mommy group.
I signed up for Park Slope Parents and joined a “birth club,” and endless email threads spool out along the length of my laptop screen as people write back and forth and back and forth, planning their next meet-up. And then they write to each other afterward to say “it was so amazing to meet you all!! All forty of you!! And your wonderful hubbies!” And I am still cowering in my apartment, afraid to step outside because I might get run over by a seriously jacked up stroller. Those things are so technologically advanced now—they’re like transformers. Some of them are probably voice activated. You can fit your whole life in one, if you can only master the mechanics, like an organist, always toeing pedals as your hands move busily above.
My mom and I went to Babies R Us and looked at the things that babies are supposed to have. Fleets of bouncy seats with dangling, jangling things attached, high cloth walls around play sets that will educate your child from birth to college while you’re in the other room, living your life, and hulking herds of gleaming, multi-compartmented strollers. I panicked and bought a stuffed giraffe. I couldn’t face the handlebar innovation. I couldn’t face any of it. I felt suddenly like I needed to sit down, so I feigned round ligament pain.