Today, I gave up. And no, giving up is not always bad. I gave up trying to fit in. I couldn’t take another dialogue regarding baby poop sizes and which formula is better (um, breast milk is best…but I’ll just sit in this corner and mind my business). I cannot roll my eyes enough at every Lululemon clad mother with a Coach handbag. Listen, Lulu was meant as an active wear brand, not the be all and end all of fashion, ladies.
I miss interesting conversations. Ok, interesting is subjective but anything more stimulating than refinishing a basement or the secret to a great meatloaf works for me. Vermicomposting. Guadelajara. Arctic hares. Anything. I realize I look different to these townsfolk. I am always, without exception, the only Black mom at the play centre. I am looked at like a scrounging raccoon skulking in on a private party. And I’m tired of it, because a) I’m fabulous. And b) so is my kid. Yet, everyone assumes he’s a ‘she’ because he doesn’t have a traditional boy’s crew haircut and dressed head to toe in blue. If that is your only concept of how a boy should look, I need to stop caring about what your opinion is, not just of me, but of anything.
Living in a small town where I do not know anyone at all is isolating and I do want to be part of a social group. But no, not that badly. So I’ll go to the play centre, probably with a big Afro and my son dressed all in purple with a good book and a coffee. Let the good times roll.