Friday night, as I mentioned in a previous post, was Moms' Night Out. Six of us left our kids with their dads and hit New Rebozo for a pitcher of margaritas and their "Oh my God!" tamales, burritos, enchiladas and guacamole.
I'm trying to come up with a good word for this group of women. They're the moms from Z's playgroup, sure, but they mean more to me than that. Should I call them my "mom friends?" It sure sounds dorky, but we're friends because we're moms. Or at least that's why we became friends originally; before Z was born, I didn't know a single one of these wonderful women. Now I don't know what I'd do without them.
So let me tell you a little bit about this lively bunch. We range in age from barely 30 to almost 40, and we hail from all over: New York City, Louisiana, Texas, Colorado, the Midwest and more. Two of us are marketers, two are social workers, one's a computer consultant, and one's a stay-at-home mom who's done both marketing and therapy. Three of us are Jewish, but one who isn't is sending her daughter to Jewish preschool. Unless someone's hiding her political beliefs (not likely), we range from just left of center to far out in left field. Our children (two boys and six girls) range from 2 1/2 years down to 1 month old, with another boy due in November.
Naturally, we talk about our kids a lot, but the conversation isn't all sippy cups, time-outs and poop. There's also our jobs, our husbands, our houses, our mothers-in-law (not mine) and Our Dumb President.
If you're reading, girls, thank you keeping me sane. And making me laugh.
