I super miss Waldorf except not really at all

A couple of weekends ago Harper had a birthday party back in Connecticut. I would normally have "lost" the invitation, but it was for her best friend. And also we were heading up to Maine and sort of passing through.

The party was held at a complete parenting hell-scape, one of those abominations that combines a gym with bouncy equipment with the Jonas Bros on repeat with bad cake (and I think Easy Bake Oven cake is good, so..) These joints have always set me on edge, but it's especially rich when you've got a wild, crab-walking infant that you're trying to wean and who thinks she's 5-years-old. And when your actual 5-year-old is terrified of bouncy castles. Help.

Most of the party was fine, I guess, maybe, but then I got sucked into talking to one of Harper's former Waldorf teachers. Let's call her Joan! Now. Joan's not one of the main two women -- who are lovely with a capital Lovely -- that run the school. She's a newer, part-time lady that mostly handles the younger kids who stay for after care. None of which is important to this story, but I felt compelled to report it.

Anyway, at one point I offhand mention that I'm in the process of weaning Bea. Joan's face fell. And then quickly turned to stone. I forgot, guys! I forgot I was not amongst friends. I was amongst the gnome people! Six weeks in Brooklyn and I forgot all those hard earned Waldorf lessons. Damn me.

For whatever reason, even though I was in the middle of committing the gravest of sins -- weaning before the age of 7! -- she wouldn't leave me alone. Here are some choice quotes.

-- "Well. Because I nursed Soy Bean till 30 months, I naturally will do the same for Almond Milk."

-- "No no, Soy Bean. No ice cream for you! We don't eat dairy when we're boogery."

-- "Oh. Raffi. Huh. Well. I've heard of him. *laughs in a scary and confusing way* (are we talking about two different Raffis?!) ...But we prefer to play spoken word games in the car."

I blacked out the rest. 

What came rushing back to me is how unsupportive these women were to me. I tweeted this awhile back, but I really want to send them all an email with, simply: "You guys are kind of the worst." It's true. The Waldorf way -- at least at this school -- is this slow burn, a chronic level of judgment and oneupmanship that creeps and sinks into your bones. It weighs you down and makes you question the simplest of choices. About food and toys and books and clothes. Everything! And there's only one way! Wood and wool and kale. I'm going to write them a wood and wool and kale anthem, they'll love it.

I realized how quickly those feelings can come rushing back when I suddenly was questioning my decision to wean Bea, suddenly doubting something I'd known just one hour before to be right for me. How (but more importantly why) do these ladies with greasy hair and five dollar skirts from the Himalayan goods store excel so fiercely at bringing another sister down? For now, I can only say I don't fucking know. But good riddance; I'mma ride into the sunset on my non-electric car while I eat a Poptart and watch Barney on a handheld device.