Who Are the REAL Stay-at-Home Moms?

I know there’s always been some tension between SAHMs (Stay-at-Home Moms) vs. MJOHs (Moms with Jobs Outside the Home), but I never let it bother me. I’ve watched both sides give each other that thinly-disguised-sneer that passes for a smile, bat their eyes and say, “How nice for you” in a tone that means, "You wouldn't last a day." Hey, as far as I’m concerned, work is work: the only difference is that when the MJOHs give orders, their underlings actually have to do what they‘re told. Must be nice. You don’t have to be a SAHM for long to discover your voice is about as significant as Muzak on hold.

However, another battle is taking place on a completely unexpected playing field: laid-back SAHMs like myself vs. self-described “real” SAHMs. These “Tsu-Mommies” apply every ounce of determination that got them through business school and vice-presidents of companies to parenting their sacred offspring. They strive to be the bestest, most wonderful, always-there-for-their-kids-1,000%-effort-24/7-Moms-ever. What they are are uber-Moms from Hell that I call “The Mayonnaise Mafia.“ No opportunity to improve their child‘s chances at “success“ goes unexplored: kids are put on sports teams almost as soon as they can walk, given violin lessons at three, and their early enrollment in the very best pre-schools are fretted over like PAP smear results. Woe to the GATE (Gifted and Talented Enrichment) programs that have the nerve to question the Blessed Child’s eligibility! They cheer their kids on with cries of “Excel!” and "Achieve!" But “You can do it!” translates as “You’d better - or else!” It's a thin line between "encouragement" and "excessive parental pressure."

But what if you have a "let-kids-be-kids" attitude, like my friend, Samantha? She got "whacked" by the Mayonnaise Mafia for having the nerveto merely drop her daughter off at soccer, rather than create a shrieky whirlwind of support from the sidelines. How dare she? Unless she was willing to spend hours clapping like a trained seal, shouting, “Good try!“, Samantha became "Mama non grata." She was shunned by the "real" moms faster than an Amish woman wearing pantyhose - no quilting bees for her.

However, for the most horrifying behavior in what's supposed to be a supportive role, the award goes to Patti, Queen of the "Momzillas." Patti had only girls, which is an entirely different planet from my all-boy crew. She was flabbergasted by play-date behavior she found “unacceptable:” my boys were not interested in tea parties and role-playing that began with, “I’ll be the mommy, you be the baby;” they were more keen on climbing, exploring, digging - stuff even non-girly girls are known to do. Patti was scandalized that I refused to insist the boys conform to their regime - er, I mean, game. I was annoyed that anyone would interfere with a child’s right to play simply because it didn’t follow some adult’s idea of “the right way“ to do it - it's play, for goodness' sake, not a Power Point presentation. So I wasn’t surprised when she informed me in no uncertain terms that our kids could not play togetheruntil they learned to “re-SPECT BOUN-dar-ies.” (Patti believed that enunciating ideas loudly would make them clearer, and I believed that she needed to be smacked into next Tuesday.)

What I didn’t expect was the far-reaching circle of cold shoulders I would receive from her friends in the Mayonnaise Mafia. You don’t cross "real SAHMs without paying for it. For being such a “bad example,” laid-back homes like mine became “No-Moms’ Land.” I remember watching two “real” SAHMs and their awful offspring crossing the street to avoid my tainted house; another mom discouraged my kids’ “intrusion” on a Mayonnaise-managed front yard football toss by asking them, “What makes you think you're welcome?” Silly kids.

“Time for tennis lessons, Thomas!” cried the Mayo-Mafiosa to her kindergartener when it looked like he might actually want to play in the mud with my wild boys. She finally had to drag him by the hand with a censorious “Come away!”, as if our laxity might be infectious.

Unfortunately, the grit that got you top grades in grad school may not work with children; a lot of these robo-kids wind up crazy-busy in the pursuit of excellence, with classes and sports every day after school and throughout the weekend. What gets lost in all this is the business of “just-being-kids,” which requires nothing more than experiencing it. It can’t be taught, and, unfortunately, it has an extremely short shelf life.

And you wind up with moms too busy to notice that their kids have become petty, competitive, mean little jerks.

“Do we have to let them play with us?” moaned precious little MacKenzie, as if we weren’t there, and because the heartless Mom-ster said nothing, it was our last visit. No tears were shed on either side.

But don’t try telling the Mayonnaise Mafia that they are producing a generation of vipers! You will wind up at the bottom of the lake, wearing cement-lined Ugg boots (none of these moms has time to take their kids to feed the ducks, so your body will never be found).

To be fair, I will cop to an enormous degree of laissez-faire in my own approach to parenthood; unless it’s truly dangerous, I figure it’s best to let kids find things out for themselves. I can even sympathize with my friend, Kay, who is so laid-back that she is almost comatose. Upon being informed that her son, Kevin, had climbed onto the roof of her two-story home, Kay glanced up, shading her eyes.

“Not all of them make it,” she shrugged, “Why do you think I had four?”

It wasn’t until a fellow mellow SAHM like me moved across the street (replacing Patti! Hooray!) that I re-joined the World of the Living SAHMs. Maggie and I instantly bonded over our overuse of the expression, “What-EV-er” (some words are worth enunciating). My kids quickly learned that hers was a “come-on-over” house, and when one of them (we never found out which one) broke a vase, Mags simply waved it off and uttered four of the most beautiful words I had ever heard:

“Eh, these things happen,” she shrugged.

I almost cried.

If you are a laid-back mom who has been cold-shouldered by the Mayonnaise Mafia, take heart. Our kids may be the ones with scraped knees and smudged faces, but you might actually catch them giving each other comfort and encouragement when things got tough. It happened to me, and I knew I must have done something right, because somehow they had learned compassion.

Yeah, that’s right, Mayonnaise Mafia: compassion. Something your kids will never have.

Beat that, you bitches.