Of Mean Girls, Cliques, and Exclusion

When I was 9, my family moved from our row home in Northeast Philly (Oxford Circle, to be exact) to a four bedroom duplex in an insular borough a stone's throw from the city line. We weren't quite suburban, like Abington and Jenkintown to our west and we were still no longer in the City.  The family on the other side of the duplex had a daughter my age: Pam. Next door, there was a family with five kids, including another girl my age, Laura. Pam and Laura were close friends with Lori. I was quickly absorbed into their circle and, a few weeks later, for reasons apparent only to Pam and Laura and Lori, I was thrust out. And that was the first time I encountered Mean Girls and their power.

I survived that period of time and the many cliques and mean girls I encountered through the rest of elementary school, and junior high, and high school. I may have even been a part of a clique and I was likely mean to people. I chalked it all up to human nature and growing up and I moved on.

As I got older, finished college, moved to Massachusetts, got a job, made friends, got a different job, went through numerous roommates, met a boy, married him, bought a house, I had many different groups of friends. I had friends from work, friends I met through my roommates, friends I met through volunteer work, friends who I did sprint triathlons with, friends I played tennis with. I threw epic parties and invited all of these people and they all got along and sometimes even started new friendships. I never called any of these groups of friends a 'Clique' because, of course, I had left cliques where they belong: in the heated imaginations of pubescent Mean Girls and the girls denied membership to the clique at hand.

Imagine my surprise when, after having two kids, and getting involved in the goings on at their school, I was accused of belonging to a clique. Wut?  For reals?

All of the definitions of the word 'clique' include 'exclusive' in the definition. Meaning that a clique works actively to exclude others. So, when I served as Board President of the PTO at my kids' school,  a time spent begging parents to step up and volunteer, who, exactly, was I trying to exclude?

I met a few friends last night and they were astonished that I didn't think that there is a PTO Clique. And I am still stunned by this thought. I see people who can and want to do things and people who can't or who don't want to. I'm grateful to the parents who can adm do, because my kids benefit from that, which is why I step up and do whenever I can. If, in the process of doing, I meet other parents who do, and we become friends, how does that count as exclusion?  Isn't a benefit of being a volunteer the ability to meet new people?

I am a born extrovert. I understand that there are people who are not; in fact, I married one (proving that we can get along). And I understand that it can be hard to step forward when you think that you are going to be judged or unwelcome.

I also understand that people choose where to live based on all sorts of reasons: proximity to work or family, cost of housing, the schools. And then we are all mashed together: those of us born and bred here, those of us here because we couldn't afford Newton, those of us who work in the 128 belt or take the train to Boston every morning. And then, our kids all end up in school together and we are
forced to acknowledge each other: Republicans and Democrats, cat people and dog people, parents of boys and parents of girls, sports parents and dance parents.

Can we leave the Mean Girl cliche behind? Be done with the concept of exclusion? Teach our kids that they can do anything they want to do without worrying about fitting a mold or others' perceptions?

Or is being a parent of a school -aged child nothing more than an awkward return to the days of Pam and Laura and Lori?

My Facebook Life may not be as Pristine as it Appears

A friend posted today on Facebook that a local toy store would give kids a $5 gift certificate for bringing in one pound of Halloween candy, which the toy store would donate to active duty members of the Armed Forces.  So, after the Flag Football games, which were played in 50 mile per hour winds and very wet snow, just so that we get some New England cred in this age of climate change, I took my two sons to the toy store, each carrying a pound or so of Halloween candy.

The toy store did a fantastic job of patiently weighing the candy and issuing the gift certificates.  It should have been blissful: the store was well stocked with art supplies upstairs, lots of books, a small but significant supply of sports-related toys, a great selection of games: just charming goodness oozing from the walls. There was a section for littles and a section for babies; an area that would appeal to girls; science-themed toys; buckets and buckets of fun toys that cost $5 or less.  In short: toy nirvana.  There's even a separate room upstairs where there are classes in art and magic and yo-yos.

Immediately after being give the $5 certificate for his candy, my 8 year old imploded into a 2 year old version of himself.  "Help me find something!"  "What do you want?"  "I DON'T KNOW!  YOU DO IT!"  Gah.  The 10 year old poo-pooed most of the offerings, settling on a glow-in-the-dark football and glow-in-the-dark paint, with which he plans to paint a trash barrel to use as a target for the football.  [BTW, he brought his own money to pay for the $14 in excess of the $5 certificate.]

The charming little shop was crowded with kids and staff.  It was late.  I was hot.  The 8 year old couldn't decide.  On anything.  He picked out a $60 remote car thing and was told "No."  He picked out an amphibious truck thing for $30 and was told that we had just SOLD the exact same thing at our Yard Sale because he never played with it and insisted on selling it.  He was directed to Pick-Up Sticks, and Gyro-Wheel, and Stomp Rockets, and Sky Raider Foam Gliders, and Metallic Markers, and games and NONE of these were any good.  I told the 8 year old that he needed to decide and he then realized that he had lost the gift certificate AND the two dollars that he had brought with him and had refused to let me hold for him.  My immediate inclination was to drag him from the store, while his brother followed with his head down, embarrassed of his mother, and get to the car.  Then, the 8 year old smashed his finger on something and started to bleed and cry at the same time.

I took a breath, applied pressure and a hug, and told the 8 year old to find the certificate and money.  We searched the store and couldn't find either.  I told him that I would front him the money for a toy if he would just please for the LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS GOOD pick out a toy so that we could LEAVE THE STORE.  As the very last straw of my entire being was getting smashed into a hay bail, the kid acquiesces and agrees that a $10 stop watch will be OK.

We went to the register to pay.  The shops owners were very sympathetic and asked us to come back in a week or so to allow them to check off all of the certificates that had been given out that day and that they would then give us another certificate.  I asked the 8 year old if he could choose a small toy of less than $5 and then get the $10 stop watch when we come back in a week.

And, oh!, the quivering of the chin and the indignation of the 8 year old!  The kid deserves an Oscar, an Emmy, and a Tony, and probably a Palme d'Or.  I bought the bleeping ten dollar stop watch and thanked the shop owners and got the eff out of the charming shop before I was arrested for screaming at children while under the influence of gift certificates.

So, here's the thing: if you are my Facebook Friend, you will see that I posted a lovely little check-in at the toy store!  'Cashing in our Halloween Treats!' or somesuch.  And yet, the sturm und drang is missing from the missive.

My perfect little Facebook life.