The Community Center

Last Tuesday, it was 9:30 am and my kids were bouncing off the walls.  With minus 20 degree weather outside, a walk was out of the question (you moms out their bravely trekking in the frigid nothern temperatures, I admire you and envy your Arctic perseverance).  Realizing my kids’ urgent need to burn off some excess energy, we made our way to the local community center which, courtesy of the fantastic Ontario Early Years Program, hosts a morning drop-in replete with a spacious gymnasium and loads of toys.

Within moments of arriving at the center, my kids bounded off to find their favourite playthings – garishly naked and stained baby dolls for my daughter and the ubiquitous dump trucks and heavy machinery for my son.  I must confirm that their stereotypically gender-appropriate choices are the result of no conscious influence by me.  I find their preferences fascinating – as if somehow the archetypal yellow truck and bald doll are entrenched in their DNA. But, that’s a whole other blog entry.

My coffee in hand, I settle in on a wooden bench to indulge in some of the colourful people-watching that is abundantly available.  Nearby, there is a chatty congregation of Filipino nannies, diligently  supervising their children while catching up on the latest with their gal-pals.  The melodic bursts of Tagalog interspersed with laughter lead me to ponder the substance of their conversations; the power of their linguistic exclusivity gives them an aura of mystery as they huddle like the in-crowd in a high school cafeteria.

The next group to observe are my peers:  the mothers of toddlers.  We are in uniform – track pants or jeans, a comfortable fleece and a damp ponytail.  We share freshly-washed faces with little make up and a keen watchful eye on our exuberant children.  Inevitably, my son or daughter starts to play with another like-minded child and we moms walk toward each other to comment on the adorableness of our kids playing together.

In ritualistic fashion, we introduce ourselves, complain a little about the sleep deprivation experienced the night before and give each other encouragement that yes, we will sleep again. One mother monitors her two toddlers while cradling an angelic newborn in her Baby Bjorn.  the peacefulness of her new child stirs a sentimental longing in me as I remember the innocence and warmth of that time.  That nostalgia, however, is brought to an abrupt end as I notice my daughter screeching as my son runs away with her doll.  I run over to wipe her tears and quiet her increasingly high-pitched scream.