I see you mommies, with your SUV strollers and hydro flasks, convening in the most public of venues, stretching lycra clad limbs, while your tiny charges sit calmly and silently. Maybe if my own kids would have ever deigned to allow me the same personal freedom then I wouldn’t think of you as inglorious bitches.
My kids would wail and screech when I was moving around the park or the mall. There would be no stopping to stretch or chat. Even that one year I joined a gym with childcare, my parent buzzer was going off before I could even get logged into the jogging program on the treadmill.
“Cynthia, your kid has been crying his head off. Please get him out of here before the other babies realize this is a choice and follow suit.”
Stroller class moms are the adult equivalent of cheerleaders. They have lots of friends and better butts than I do… because they are allowed the chance to participate in fun fitness while I was only ever sweating from anxiety, trying to settle my kid down even one notch from hysterical.
Mom who is wearing her baby while still trying to take the class, you get a pass!
I did have two kids who tolerated my adult choices, but only when I wore their little faces smooshed into my breasts. And I wasn’t going to be so foolish as to use those moments working out! Scratch that. I did count walking the mall between stores that sold only grown-up clothes as aerobic. It was still a solitary event, however, as I had made a name for myself as the one with the difficult kids.
It’s been a year since I had a child small enough to ride in a stroller but I still give you a glare as I walk past your overtly public display of healthy parenting.
Just like with the cheerleaders, we will never be friends.