Who knew there was an entire culture of mothers hiding out in bathrooms in malls across America? I completed yet another rite of passage into mommyhood this past week… in the Ladies’ Lounge at my nearby Nordstrom. The things that go on in there…
It was like another world! And I got stuck in there for an entire hour! Was this the same restroom that I’d used hundreds of times before in my previous life (without baby)? How I longed for the days when I could dash in, actually use the restroom for myself, reapply my lipgloss and jet out the door for more shopping. Never again. Sigh. It was a scene from the handbook of motherhood: moms, kids, bottles, boobs, diapers, strollers, shoes… all congested into one tiny space made of 2 loveseats and a changing table. There were the “Euros” (a striking dark-haired mom speaking Italian to her toddler boy while peeling a tangerine), the “Harijukus” (3 Asian sisters dressed to kill – with enviable figures – changing their baby’s diaper), the “Guccis” (I named them this solely because of their humongous handbag!), the “Sporties”… and the “Rookies” (me and LadyP… me, with my “I’m-Going-To-Be-A-Cool-Mom-Dammit” thigh-high boots on). As I was a Mommy-Lounge Virgin, the congested scene made me antsy. The noise, the activity, the fact that LadyP would rather flirt with the overhead lights rather than drink her milk… Argh! I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
In the midst of my internal breakdown, I noticed that there was a definite structure at this Mothers’ Meeting… a set of unspoken rules, if you will:
1) Thou shalt not walk in and start using the changing table without asking if anyone else is using it first.
2) Thou shalt not park your stroller in the middle of the room.
3) Thou shalt not take up more space on the couch (or floor) than is wider than your own bottom. Don’t spread out! Space is limited!
There was a definite vibe that I can’t quite explain. Those with older babies seemed to have an authority and sense of control that us newer moms did not. Of course, everyone was very nice as we traded info about our kids’ age/etc. And, all the kids were adorable! As much as I dread going in there again, I was somewhat fascinated with the scene. I won’t go so far as to say that it was “fun” in that mess, but it felt right. That is, until LadyP decided to spit up all over her clothes, the couch and down my back. That’s it: One hour is my limit. Time to leave.
As I embarrassingly wiped up the drippings and hastily packed up our things, “Glitzy-Mom” (with her sequined shoes) leaned over and said “Don’t worry, it gets better. The first time I was here, I didn’t leave for 2 hours.” TWO HOURS?!?!?!? I smiled, and secretly hoped I was ahead of the curve.
