T.O.M.S.

And I don’t mean that asshole that was here yesterday. “T.O.M.S.” is an acronym that one of my best friends, -Ray, and I created as shorthand for The Other MomS at our children’s respective preschools. I have three kids ages 16, 15 and 5 (first and second marriage offspring, see?). My big kids went to the same preschool that my little kid goes to, so I have history with the place. I have known the director for a million years, I have lived in this city most of my life, I am from here.

The entire time that my big kids went to this preschool, only one mom ever reached out to me to even say hello. We were never invited to a birthday party. I was a young, uncertain single parent, terrified that others would know that I was that feared scourge, A Welfare Mother. I felt undeserving of friendship from what I thought were “real” moms who weren’t poor and divorced. Later, when I returned to the very same preschool with my youngest, I was mature, I knew who I was, I was married, financially secure, and comfortable in my own skin. It never occurred to me that I still wouldn’t fit in.

For the first three years that my son attended this school, we were not invited to a single birthday party. Mothers didn’t much respond to me when I said good morning. No one suggested a play date. Last year, my husband, who does not have any tattoos, who is a public figure in our fair city, who is as preppie, IBM-conservative in appearance as they come, was the parent who picked up our child after school. He chatted with the moms. They LOVED him. One suggested a play date. This information was relayed to me, so the next morning I stopped her to accept the invitation and exchange phone numbers.

I will never forget the look on her face when she realized that the kid she had invited over belonged to that horrible freak with the tattoo and weird clothes. She stammered, and it was awkward. I figured she’d never call me, but she did. I went to her bland, beige house, we chatted, the children played. It went okay. The following day at preschool, she snubbed me when I said hello. This went on. Her husband snubbed me as well. At one point, while sitting outside after school, her child went to sit next to me and she said, “Oh, let’s not sit THERE, honey, let’s sit over HERE.” T.O.M.S. closed rank and talked pointedly about events I was not invited to.

I’m a woman who is known for being outspoken and not shy, but that year was nearly my undoing. I would have terrible anxiety about picking the child up at school. I cried. I almost didn’t go to the annual Mother’s Day luncheon because I was paralyzed by the fear that no one would sit with me. I went anyway, glommed on to a mom I didn’t know very well, suffered through it. Around that same time, another mom approached my husband about a play date. He agreed. I was pissed, because I’d already had that dance, thanks.

This play date, however, went well. I liked this other mom. She liked me, and then, well, something happened. THIS mom is the daughter of a famous person. Because she peed on me, sniffed my butt and deemed me okay, T.O.M.S., even Bland Beige, suddenly became My Best Friends. I was asked to join frivolous mommy groups (Moms and More; I said when they come up with Moms and LESS, let me know), women spoke to me, I got invited to play dates and birthday parties. Bland Beige acts like we’ve known each other all our lives and are like, sisters. But only in front of other people. She’s not going to phone me up to chat or anything.

What happened next? Well, there’s apparently a requirement that there be a Mom We All Hate. I’m not it anymore, so someone else is. I spend a lot of time pointing out that I believe the new Mom We Hate is abused by her husband and that I have great sympathy for her. I refuse to gossip about her. I refuse to be mean. I keep thinking that we are adults.

This phenomenon is what Ilyka calls “fighting over the crumbs.” It’s the sort of social structures that form when a group has no real power and has been diminished by their culture. There’s a rush to conformity so that a group of women can feel superior to someone, anyone; in my case the wacky artist with the tattoo and funky wardrobe, in the new victim’s case, the one who isn’t hip to fashion and is socially awkward and hard to talk to. I have wrestled with this; wondering, how will women ever make any progress if this is what we’re taking up our time with? Not to get all biblical, but gossiping is possibly the deadliest of sins; it costs us the opportunity to band together and make our communities better places. What can we do, then, to forge new ground and move forward? I speak from a position in which I wear the golden handcuffs of a popular mom’s approval. I’m the cheerleader’s friend; they all think I’m a little weird, but they’re willing to tolerate their friend’s taste in oddballs. To a certain degree, I am the exotic pet. My friend –Ray, in Portland, has experienced the same thing, so it’s not just my little town. So I wonder, and ask, is it everyone’s experience? Where are the grown up women who appreciate interesting people? Why aren’t we more open to each other and able to celebrate our differences? We’re talking about preschool here; not the U.N. I will keep on being me, and I will always work to resist the urge to gossip. Because being gossiped about hurts, and the power gained from doing it is illusory at best. I don’t want to be part of the T.O.M.S. club.