What I Wish I Could Say at a Playdate

by Jessica Towns

It’s Toddler Playtime at the community center. The gym is jammed with plastic slides, kid kitchens, and Flintstone-style cars. The primal howls of yet-uncivilized children rattle the bleachers. My mom-friends and I stand in a semicircle, semi-watching our two year-olds, and I’m dying to tell them.

I want to tell them that two hours ago, I sat drippy-eyed on the couch, lamenting my inadequacy as a mother. Sure, my kid was happy—trotting around, eating goldfish crackers (which I think was her breakfast?)—but I was not.

Motherhood has cracked open my chest and allowed love to flow out in volumes I never knew possible. I would trade it for nothing. But it hurts, and it’s hard, and sometimes I hate it.

Even over the sticky scent of collective toddler breath, the other moms may be able to tell that I haven’t showered. But can they smell my sense of failure? I must reek of someone who loses her temper too often, turns on TV in the afternoon, and forgets to change diapers.

I want to tell them that toddlerhood is kicking my ass.

The challenge is letting it out in a controlled way—just a little fart from an overstretched balloon—enough to garner sympathy but not judgment. Enough to be hugged but not straight-jacketed.

I might joke about it. I’ll say I was thinking about setting my daughter in a cardboard box on the sidewalk. Free to a good home.

Or I’ll scoot a little closer to the truth and say that if I hear the word mommymommymommy one more time, I’ll put myself in a box on the sidewalk.

I want to confess to them that I actually considered granting my kid’s request for cheesecake at 10 AM, and I’m this close to letting her draw on the television because I’m sick of fighting about it.

I want to tell them that the other morning, after a rough night, I feel asleep on the couch, only to wake up and see my daughter crawling out of the fireplace.

But I’m afraid of what they’ll think. Perhaps I am uniquely incompetent. In a while we’ll pack our diaper bags, and they’ll return to their homes, which I imagine to be free of processed food, light-up beepy-boppy toys, and licensed characters. Meanwhile I’ll wrestle my kid into her carseat with the promise of a graham cracker.

I think about our foremothers—thirteen children apiece, cleaning house, tending a farm, cooking sans microwave, and keeping husbands happy, I assume (see the aforementioned thirteen children).

How is it that I slid out of that centuries-long birth canal unable to win a fight with a toaster, never mind a toddler?

I push back my unwashed hair, watch my daughter shove a kid off the slide, and the seed of self-doubt sprouts anew. I wish I could tell my friends about it, knowing that they’d take for granted how much I really do love my child. That I wouldn’t be side-eyed or pinned with the dreaded scarlet label: Bad Mom. That I would continue to be accepted, mismatched shoes and all.

Motherhood has cracked open my chest and allowed love to flow out in volumes I never knew possible. I would trade it for nothing. But it hurts, and it’s hard, and sometimes I hate it.

I feel the telltale tug on my jeans. “Mommy hold you,” my daughter whines, which can be roughly translated to mean “Get me out of here, woman. I want that graham cracker.” While I wrangle her shoes on, the other moms and I exchange pleasant goodbyes, promises to do this again soon.

My kid and I meander toward the door, triple-checking that we have her Tiger, and I feel the anxiety swell. It can’t be healthy to hold these enormous feelings inside.

Maybe one of these playdates I’ll say something.

About the Author

Jessica Towns is a full-time mom and two-time PEPS graduate. She lives in Wedgwood with her husband Will and daughter Ravenna, and spends her limited free time writing and drinking a lot of coffee. Jessica holds a civil engineering degree from Seattle University.