The Cult Of Mom

If you thought Apple Fanboys were off the ledge, you need to get thee to an early morning sing-a-long at your local library.

I was lucky enough to find a parking spot outside the play room at the new Lynn Valley Public Library this morning for what I thought was going to be story time. It was the most bizarre experience of my life, I had a front row seat to The Cult of Mom.

Before the class started they were chitting and chatting about stroller fit classes, bumps and bruises, comparing nap times and showing off cute new polo shirts on their son.

I sat quietly in the corner.

I can’t describe the feeling as anything but fear. These women had bought fully into this 30 minutes of freedom. No longer were they tied up at home changing diapers, they were here to fraternize with their Sisterhood of the Travelling Peg Perego.

From the opening bell no less than 2 dozen moms, and their under 18 mos offspring, were heartily singing a long to “The Little Pink Duck” “The Thumb Song” “Good Morning” and many many other entirely forgettable hits.

It reminded me of the folk choirs we had at church as a kid. Every single mom smiling beyond belief and every single child blankly staring through the walls. The moms were there to sing and they had bought in to the scenario hook. line. sinker.

The instructors had the biggest smiles, were making the grandest over exaggerated gestures possible and every single mom was following along. They knew the words. They knew the actions. They were performing with lustful glee as if Simon Cowell was peering through the glass and ready to crown them Mom Idol.

Z sat there just as stunned as I. I tried to make the motions, and sing some of the lyrics, but Z just sat there. He didnt clap. He didnt smile. He didnt try to sing.

This is odd. He’s the happiest child you have ever seen. He loves to clap and dance and yell and scream. But he did none of it.

When the 30 minutes was up I hightailed it out the door and down the stairs as fast as I could before one of the moms stopped me and asked if I’d accepted “Mr Sun, Sun, Mr Golden Sun” as my personal saviour.

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