Secret Parent Club

Watch out - I'm about to get all mommy on y'all.

Mothers' days just passed (In the US it was Sunday, in Mexico it was Monday) and this was my first year being a mom on that day. Sure, last May I was knocked up and as big as a manatee, but, as my in-laws repeatedly reminded me, I wasn't yet a mother. I thought, "Damn well close enough, right?" (my son was born a month later) but they stayed firm that I didn't qualify. I was going to have to push him out and keep him alive for a year if I wanted flowers.

Well, baby boy was born, and suddenly I gained membership into the secret parent club. I didn't even know it was a club until I'd joined, that's how secret. Yes, suddenly strangers would smile at me and say, "My son's about his age! Here, let me help you with your bag." or "Aren't they sweet at that age? My daughter just turned two. Let me get that door for you."

I should be more precise about this though. I gained entry to the US secret parent club. In Mexico I'm still just some gringa, same as always. Instead of offering me a seat on the bus (because I'm carrying my baby and three bags of groceries) they just stare at me and think, "I wonder how that gringa's going to manage holding on to all that stuff while the bus is moving. I hope she doesn't drop that bag of beans on me. It would be funny, though, if she fell on someone. Gringos are so ridiculous."

Thus it was only while traveling in the US this last month that I discovered my recently acquired membership. I was stunned. I also lacked practice. At parks, in grocery stores, at OMSI, everywhere I went mommies and daddies would try to engage me in parent banter, and I had to think fast to keep my side of it.

"How old is he?" some mommy would ask.
"Uh. What? My baby?"
"Yeah, is he your son?" She was already suspicious that maybe I wasn't really a member.
"Oh! Yes. My son is ten months."
...
And then I'd remember to ask, "How old is your son?"
"He's 13 months."
"Oh. That's great." How am I supposed to respond to this?
"Is he walking yet?" she asks. Great. Another question.
"Not yet. He kind of cruises around while holding onto things, but he's not really walking on his own yet."
...
"Is your son walking?"
Other mommy stares at me because her son is, in fact, walking around in front of us at that moment.
"I guess so, huh." I say lamely. "Well, how great that he's walking." But really? What does one say?

But then I realized how great it is to belong to this club, because in San Juan all of my attempts to meet people and make friends fail miserably. They couldn't fail more if they were attempts to run through a brick wall. But in California and Oregon I found myself with thousands of people happy to engage in conversation with me. So my next attempts at parent banter were at least more enthusiastic, even if no more successful.

Mommy and child sit down next to us. I smile at them both waiting for the right moment to initiate parent banter. Babies are both playing. Other mommy smiles and says hi.

"Hi!" I respond. "How old is your daughter?" Using what I've already learned, I cut right to the chase.
"She six and a half months."
"Ah what a sweet time!" I say, my face nearly breaking in half from all the smiling I'm doing. "She's darling."
"Thank you." Mommy smiles. "And how old is your son?"
"He's ten months." Mommy looks like she's about to return a compliment, but as we watch he grabs all of the baby girl's toys and tosses them one by one over his shoulder. Then he looks around for something else to throw and reaches for the girl's bottle.
"No, no, no, sweetie. Here. Look at your book."
"He's sure an active little guy." Mommy says of him.
"Oh, yes. Thanks!" I make it a compliment. "Yep, he's always... uh, exploring."
Mommy becomes distracted with her daughter. I can't let the conversation end.
"So, do you live around here?" Oh my God. I sound like I'm trying to pick up on her. Then I realize, I am trying to pick up on her. I'm cruising for friends at the park, and using my baby to do it. Oh! the shame.
"Yeah, just a few blocks away." She says. "Where do you two live? I haven't seen you around before."
And then I realize the folly of my question. Now I have to confess that I live in Mexico; I'm only visiting. I can't make play dates or talk about child care. I can't bump into them another day. This is a one-day stand friendship at best.
"Oh, uh. No. We don't live around here, unfortunately. We're just visiting..." I try to think of some way to save myself. "But we'll probably be back for another visit soon!" Like she's going to write me in to her calendar and make arrangements to be at the park that day.
"I see. Well, it must be nice you get to visit." Then mommy starts packing up her toys, smiles and says good bye. And off they go. Just like that. They walked out of our lives forever.

I think if we had stuck around I would have become quite adept at it, and by now we'd have more play dates than Elmo. But Alas! we're back in San Juan. The club here works a little differently, and you don't have be the parent to belong. You need only be over six years-old and the closest one to a baby at the moment. Membership sounds like this:

"He's hiccuping! He must be cold. Poor baby, are you cold? Why didn't your mama put a sweater on you? Poor thing. Tell your mama, 'mami, will you get me my sweater?' Poor baby."

"Look at that mark on his arm!"
"Yeah. It's a mosquito bite. We had mosquitoes in the bedroom last night."
"No. I think it's a rash. You must not be bathing him enough. Rub some lime juice on it!"

"Oh my God! Where are that's child's socks and shoes! He's going to catch pneumonia and die! Put some shoes on him. Walking around with no shoes on! Poor thing. He's going to die!"

"You want some of my coffee? Hm. Little baby? Here's a sip..."
"Actually, I don't want him to have any coffee. He's just a baby."
"But one little sip won't harm him. You liked that? Here, have another taste."
"Well, also it's nap time, so please don't give him any more."
"Oh, it's ok. I'm just giving him a little bit because he wants it."

That's how the club works down here.

Motherhood. And you know what? In the end, I didn't even get any flowers.