The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Party Pariah

Three birthday parties in sixteen hours.

The wee one had been invited to three different parties, each one for the same weekend. First was Emily, followed by Gaëlle, followed by Sebastien. I asked my sister, who has had more experience with this sort of thing, if I should elect to stay with the wee one for the duration of whichever party. She told me that she does, that you don't really know who these people are after all, and that it's a bit of security for your child. So, I took her to Emily's last night, and when I got to the house, I realized that Emily's mother is one of the women at the school I've been kind of hoping to strike up a friendship with. Perfect, I thought, because this will force a conversation between us, breaking the ice and erasing the unfamiliarity. It turned out that I was the only mother who stayed for the party, all the rest scampering off like they were on leave from prison, and I was left to stand in the kitchen with the mother and her essentially mute friend who had been enlisted to help with the activities. The friend, whose name I don't recall, was the kind of woman who opened her mouth to speak, but nothing would come out. She smiled, but never met my eyes, and the two of them appeared to have a very tight bond which had no room for me in it. I decided to be pleasant, to let the self-consciousness I felt sink into the floorboards, and I busied myself with chatting with the little girls and playing with the yappy, nippy puppy. I looked at the clock every five minutes to see if I was closer to my own liberation, but time was dragging on, miserably so. I helped cut out butterfly wings, handed out thick pieces of sugar-brick cake with hard, candied roses, painted nails on four-year-old fingers, and I could see my wee one was in her element, so I left myself out of it. When the girls were running around in the upstairs, I tried to initiate a conversation with the mother and her mute friend, but the answers were tight and simple, giving no extra detail. They did not ask me anything, didn't seem to be remotely interested in who I am or what I might do, and I soon came to realize that there would be no friendship evolving here.

I looked around the house, observing the way things were organized, the colours and the preferences. The wedding photo on top of the corner cabinet showed a woman about fifty pounds lighter than the one who was doling out pizza slices on Princess paper plates. The husband also appeared to have had hair, once upon a time. The furniture was inexpensive and cheap looking, but not ugly in an obvious way, and the walls were white and photoless. A military household, I surmised, a family used to relocating frequently who did not see the point of investing in decoration or paint. Perhaps this explained the chilly reception as well, the inability to maintain friendships because of constant upheaval, but still, it might have been nice to have been treated as though I were worthy of a conversation. Every so often the friend would open her mouth and move it in response to one of my questions, and I would nod and say 'oh yeah', like I had actually heard her respond. No wonder I hardly have any friends here.

We gave the little girl a Barbie doll, and it was one of four she received in total. Unimaginative lot we are. The thing is, I've been trying to ensure that my own daughter is not brought up as a rabid materialist, but after going to this gathering, I see I am sort of alone in this. The gifts were not what I'd call lavish, but it was clear that the more bulky the gift bag, the better. Also, each little girl was wearing a frilly, cupcake like dress, and when one of them showed up in a pastel-coloured pant and t-shirt set, her mother drove all the way home and back again to bring a multi-layer, black and cream ribboned number for her daughter to change into. My own wee one was wearing a denim skirt, polka dot blouse and blue leggings underneath, and made a point of telling me later that she felt conspicuous for being the only one not dressed to the nines. I thought she had looked cute, and festive, but apparently I am not up on these things. When we finally left, with a little box filled with decorated cupcakes and a goody bag filled with plastic figurines which I'll likely be throwing out by midweek, I was beyond relieved.

When I got home, it was obvious that M. was not speaking to me. I don't know why, have no recollection of saying or doing anything to him which might have brought it on, but it was plain that he had no intention of asking how the party was. Instead, he put on his shoes and went for a walk, and since I had no idea what had set him off, I could do nothing but become livid at being treated like a pariah. I can understand if there's been some sort of disagreement, but to freeze me out without telling me why is ridiculous. When he returned, he had a bag of groceries filled with things for himself, like Shepherd's Pie, mineral water and orange juice, all of which I do not eat or drink. As he was emptying the bag, I asked him if he was upset with me about something, and he grumbled an unintelligible response, something about how he was hungry or some such, and he let the opportunity to discuss it pass. I watched him prepare his own dinner before taking it into the dining room to eat alone, and I shook my head in annoyance, not knowing if I actually cared anymore what the problem might be.

Today, things are no better. He is still behaving as though he is hurt by something, and, traditionalist that I tend to be, I am annoyed at his sensitivity, thinking that a real man would just come out with the problem already. The whole wounded, pouty, arms length thing is too female for my taste. I'd rather he confronted me than just hole away in his office like a twelve-year-old named Prissy who wears a bow on her head.

I have gone through possible scenarios in my head, trying to come up with something which might explain the petulance. We had a slight difference of opinion as to whether we should be concerned about the wee one's diarrhea yesterday. His usual stance is to assume she's fine unless she's bleeding profusely or is delirious. I told him that parents do not take kindly to sending sick children to functions because it means their own children will likely become sick as a result. I am not an alarmist when it comes to the wee one's health. I'm practical. I know that a fever, vomiting and diarrhea are three things which a parent does not want to see anywhere near their own healthy child, and I said as much. That might have been it. The thing is, I truly remember nothing else which might explain it, but I'm not him, and he has his own way of reacting to things.

He took the wee one to the other parties today. Actually, he dropped her off at one, and took her for a driveby of the other. Both had been scheduled for the same time so we decided that she would only drop a little token gift off at one. I was embarrassed, actually, because I had only bought the little boy a book on dinosaurs and came to realize last night that one is expected to spend at least thirty dollars per gift, which I hadn't done. I decided that since she wouldn't actually be spending time at the party, I didn't have to spend a lot on the gift. Now, I feel like a cheapskate, and when I mentioned to M. that I was little embarrassed, he just shrugged his shoulders as if to say, 'oh well'. I hope the parents don't think we're the most miserly people around. I don't want to have to add that unsavoury characteristic to the list of things I hate about myself.

So, I type in a room darkened by the dreariness of a grey Saturday afternoon. I hate these kinds of days. Saturdays never feel right when they're dark and wet, and to me it's always been more of a Monday kind of thing. I am feeling low because I am wondering if I jinxed myself the other day by smiling about how M. and I haven't had a fight in ages. I don't generally believe in jinxes, but I have to admit that everytime I think to take notice of the ease of our relationship, something comes up which changes the happy order of things. He is napping, I think, as he often does when we are in the middle of a row, but I can't help but feel annoyed that he hasn't at least hinted at what it is I've done to make him upset with me. I think he owes me at least that much.

So, ignored at a party, ignored at home. Good times.