Confessions of a Gymboreeaholic

This week's Insurmountable Odds Standing Between Amy & Gymboree:

1) No car. Still. We've had zero time to take it in for repairs, so just to let the poor useless thing know we haven't abandoned it entirely, I like to go outside and kick it occasionally.

2) No stroller. In Jason's car, despite the three separate reminders this morning to put it in my car, plus the way I chanted "stroller stroller stroller" as he walked out the door. He rolled his eyes and got all kinds of testy with me, because OKAY. GOD. And then he walked outside and was promptly distracted by "some kind of crazy pothole-filling machine" and forgot to move the stroller.

3) No house key. Realtor has it. Jason forgot to get a copy made; I forgot to steal his off his keychain.

4) No morning nap. Self-explanatory, although I do wish I was technically proficient enough to upload an MP3 of Noah's EEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYEEEHHHHHHEEEEAAAAHHH shriek-fest, just to really give you the full multimedia experience of this one.

So obviously, I called Gymboree and scheduled a makeup class, because really. I can take a hint. Right?

Ha! No, I totally did not do that. I called Jason instead, and tearfully told him that I just HAD to get out of the house today, I just HAD to. So he came home at lunchtime and drove us to Gymboree.

Yes, I am nuts.

To be fair, somebody needed to be home this afternoon to meet the realtor and sign some other thing in the endless stream of things that need signed (we're officially on the market TOMORROW. somebody come buy our place. bring money.), so Jason got to work from home all afternoon, which is fun and I think makes up for the fact that I never really told him I can schedule makeup classes anytime I need to.

Here's the really scary thing: I kind of love Gymboree. It's...actually pretty fun, which I guess proves I've gone as low on the mommyscale as one can sink. The nanny-to-mother ratio has balanced out over the last few weeks and I've met some really cool women. Almost all of us work part-time-ish at home, and we all kind of eye each other with the same hungry, will-you-be-my-friend-wanna-go-to-Starbucks-circle-yes-or-no kind of look. I love being around all the other babies and I love the way everybody treats every kid like their own: we praise and cheer and cuddle and kiss boo-boos indiscriminately.

There's one little girl who has been kind of lagging developmentally (she wouldn't crawl or walk). Today she WALKED into class, and we all burst into applause while her nanny teared up in relief. I love looking around the room at all the women -- mothers and nannies alike -- who all seem to be finding such joy in raising these hilarious little people, even while we roll our eyes at singing the same stupid songs AGAIN, God.

But I love that Max and Hannah and Anya give me hugs every week. I love watching Mia come out of her reserved little shell a little more every week. And I love -- LOVE -- watching Noah shriek with delight over each new activity and watching him master a new skill with every class. I love it so much that after our class I take him out for lunch and then return an hour later for the "open gym" playtime so I can watch him crawl through tunnels and up ramps to his heart's delight.

There. Whew. That felt good to confess. It's not cool to like stupid parenting shit like Gymboree, I know. It's probably a sign that I need to Get Out More and Find An Identity Outside Of The C-H-I-L-D before my brain turns into mushy stay-at-home-mom mush, but there it is.

Gymbo the Clown can still bite my ass though.