Playground Biotch Gauntlet

One of the more annoying things about the kids' school is having to run the daily Playground Biotch Gauntlet during afternoon pick up. The main part of the school is an open asphalt court and a playground, both of which you need to walk through to get to the main part of the school. There are several small cliques of parents who, having no life of their own, show up to pick-up several minutes early. They then spend their time talking, bitching, gossiping and in general being irritating members of the public while their kids run riot around them.

"Sarah! We have to go! COME ON!"
[ten minutes of chattering]
"I said, WE GOTTA GO, COME ON!"
[ten minutes of idle gossip]
"NU, SARAH! You have swimming/karate/soccer/obnoxious child lessons!"
[more chatter...with no actual intention of, you know, leaving]

You get the idea. Part of what pisses me off about this is that these parents spend ridiculous amounts of time at school - but somehow are always "too busy" to actually volunteer any of their precious time to help out. EVER. They think it's of more value to their child's education to stand in the playground and complain than it is to actually give the teachers a hand now and again.

Because I'm famous as "the triplet lady," a number of these parents like to make various comments to me. Often the comments are friendly and nice, and sometimes the comments are stupid ("Your son and daughter are SO identical! How DO you tell them apart?") Either way I don't love that loooong, loooong walk between the front gate and the school door. It's my version of running the gauntlet - the Playground Biotch Gauntlet [of idiotic comments.] As a result I've had to re-institute the "I'm not looking so you are not looking" stare as I make the long trek.

The INLSYNT stare is one that all parents with multiples perfect from very early on in their parenting. It's the look you have on your face when you're pushing the biggest stroller in the world through the mall, you have exactly 6.7 seconds in which to find the perfect present, and you DO NOT want to stop and talk to every well-meaning stranger who feels the need to chatter and touch your precious babies. It's the "please don't make eye contact with me" stare which hopefully acts as the warning signal to all approaching old ladies and gets them to veer off course. I graduated from using this stare once the kids were old enough to be "obviously" not identical. I've re-instituted it in the playground so that I can get in and out without having to deal with commentary (unless of course Poppet's Mum and/or Neighbour's Wife are there, in which case I don't mind a quick chat.)

On Wednesday I had no choice but to stick around in the playground, so that I could watch Neighbour's Wife's kids while she had her parent teacher conference. Quid Pro Quo, she was going to look after mine while I had my conference (yes, my kids are great and smart and blah blah, thanks for asking.) That short thirty minute span had me feeling very, very grateful for my usual "get the hell out" method of child pick up. I had to deal with these encounters of the Playground Biotch Gauntlet:

- DD1 was eating a cereal bar I brought her. In my defense, it was a rare moment of junk food which I allowed because I stupidly took the kids to the supermarket with me. Taking kids to the supermarket = conned into buying some crap. So DD1 is enjoying her treat when another Mom comes up to me and says, "You LET your kids eat that stuff?!" Well, dumbass, here's a clue. There's my kid, and there she is eating it. So, YES, I do let them eat that stuff. This same genius then tells me how my girls are identical, and wants to know if I've had them tested. When I point out that, in fact, they look nothing alike, she tells me I only think that because I'm their mother. Apparently, nobody can ever tell them apart.

It was at this point that I noticed the pretty little bird in the tree and simply HAD to rush off and go see it ... being the avid bird watcher that I am, of course.

- One of the other Grade One mothers is a bit of a nutcase. A lovable, well meaning, hippie nutcase, but still a nutcase. She comes up to me and says, "Oh, are you waiting for your teacher conference?" When I indicate I am, she asks me to do her a favour. The favour? Could I please ask the (secular) teacher about WHY the kids don't learn the Mah Nishtanah (Passover song) at school? Because after all we are paying for a Jewish education and our kids should be taught that song.

Okay, maybe she's right. But...lady...it's SEPTEMBER. Passover is in MARCH. What, exactly, is the teacher responsible for math and reading and life skills going to say about the kids not learning a Passover song? Better yet, why do I want to waste my teacher conference x 3 talking about some song that you are worried about 6 months in advance?

I got rescued from that one by the timely arrival of the principal, and my quick thinking self who told nutcase Mom to ask HER why the song isn't taught. Score one for a quick escape via the handball method.

- On the way OUT of said conferences, I pass yet another Grade One mother. "Here for conferences?" she asks. "Yes," says I, thinking - um, it's 5pm and I have no kids with me, why ELSE would I be here? "Everything okay? Kids doing fine?" she asks. "Yes, fine, thanks," says I, thinking, "and WHY exactly is it your business if my kid is a moron or a genius? "Oh, yeah," says other mother, "[insert snooty and sarcastic voice] of course they are. YOUR kids are probably all going to HARVARD." "No, actually, just one is. The other two are going to Yale," says I, thinking, "Listen you stupid jealous cow, it's not my fault that your kid is god's idea of a cosmic joke."

*sigh* ...and THAT is why I hate running the Playground Biotch Gauntlet. *stares*