At some pivotal moment before the “Guess the size of the Pregnant Belly” game, but after the onesie decorating contest, someone became offended by something. What it was I’m not sure. I was gazing down at the yellowing triangle egg salad sandwich on my plate when it happened. By the time I realized that something offensive had been said, something even more offensive came out of your mouth. In a sing-song voice that only people who say this use, you looked at me and said, “Too much information!”
I knew right then, amid the pink Mylar balloons and miniature baby bottles filled with white jellybeans, that this relationship needed to end. It needed to end not just because you had just uttered an overused saying that was once funny in a late 90’s kind of way, but because to you- all of you- everything outside of sippy cups, sleep training, babysitter rates, and nap schedules always proves to be just too much information.
That night I shamefully confess to my husband, “I’m leaving the playgroup. Gavin will just have to make some new friends.”
“But why?!” Panic overcomes him as he envisions our weekends without birthday parties, baby namings, and barbeques.
I then proceed to tell him everything. I tell him that the last thing that I actually had in common with you was my growing belly three years ago when we met in a pregnancy class. I tell him how, week after week, for two years now, I have sat on your dog hair covered playroom floors delving into the same topics. It is better to introduce Gerber puffs as finger foods before Cheerios. The original Diaper Genie is actually superior to the new, remodeled Diaper Genie II. Pushing is not acceptable behavior. Boys might take longer to potty train than girls. And yes, losing those last five pregnancy pounds can seem impossible.
I tell him how today, you uttered, “Too much information.” And how everyone actually laughed when you said this. I tell him how nobody ever laughs at my jokes, but instead interprets them literally, forcing me to awkwardly backtrack, recant, and explain myself.
I tell him that I yearn for more. I tell him that I yearn to laugh at something other than the way that your child can blow kisses on command. Its cute, but not that cute. Please don’t make her do it again. I tell him that I yearn to ask if anyone else is secretly captivated by The Hills on MTV, if anyone else is having a difficult time falling in love with either Obama or Hillary, if anyone else recognizes that Rachel’s mommy never wears a bra but really should?!
Does anyone else wonder if this is what motherhood is all about?
I then tell him that if you say “too much information” today, then you might say “TMI” next week. And if you ever say, “Don’t go there” then I might just have to jump out of the window of your Playskool tree house.
So there, its over. I’m leaving you. Please don’t wait for us next Wednesday morning, or any Wednesday after that. And don’t bother to send me a deceivingly festive Evite for your next Mom’s Night Out or Cookie Exchange either. You are even more dull when you are not with your children, and to be honest, the “homemade” cookies that I brought last year were really pre-made Tollhouse and when I found one of your cat’s hairs in my Pecan Surprise, I nearly hurled.
I’m sorry if that is too much information. |
