I ran into a couple of my former music class moms at an indoor toddler play gym this week. These weren’t just any moms and this wasn’t a typical class – these gals were members of the Music Class Mommy Mafia.

I’d been asked by a gal if I would teach a class just for herself and a few of her friends. I told her that as long as she did fill the class (about 7 kiddos with accompanying moms); I would put them on the schedule. How easy is that? It’s like business being handed to me on a silver platter.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

From day one, I tried; I tried really hard, not to judge these women. But from day one, they made it so easy and necessary to do so. These are the ladies that, with one look, you can see roaming the halls of a middle school. They were the “cool girls” that all the other young women worshipped and tried to emulate. In high school, they were the cheerleaders and the Prom Queens. In college, these ladies were the president of the social committee at their Sorority. They studied Communications, Marketing or Business. Some time after Graduation, they found suitable, marriable, handsome and wealthy (former Frat boys) to marry. Stereotypes? Totally. And yet, fight it as I might, these ladies – this Music Class Mommy Mafia – completely fulfilled every stereotype that I resisted. I had no choice in the matter. I totally judged these judgmental ladies.

They walked into my at-home music class as a united front, and I stood no chance against their power. I was treated like the hired help, expected to entertain their kids while they drank their lattes [yes, I recognize that I would’ve loved to be drinking a latte too], gossiped [who me? Talking about people?! Believe it or not, I do try not to]. They discussed which yuppy preschool their child was on the waiting list for, where they would be vacationing next, why they were on the prowl for a new nanny, where they bought their child’s designer outfit [the clothes of these toddlers most likely cost more than I’ve ever spent on clothes for our whole family…in a year], etc. etc. etc. You get the gist. All this discussion was going on, mind you, whilst I attempted to teach a music class to their completely out-of-control angels.

I did make the occasional comment – plea – for them to participate more fully in class. Or in the least to control their kids. But apparently there had been an understanding that I was not aware of – as a music teacher I was also to be the full-time personal slave to seven yuppy two-year-olds while their Moms had coffee tawlk. On the occasion that I did make a feeble, half-ass attempt to (subtlety and politely) remind them to please be more involved in class, the moment, I turned my back my pleas were met by nasty loud-enough-for-me-to-hear whispers.

At one point, the kids even shhhh-ed their moms because they couldn’t hear the story. At another time, when I stopped little Kate from running laps around the room (since her Mom, her Grandma and the nanny dared not tell this girl no – yes, she traveled with an entire entourage), my disciplining the child was met with the dirtiest looks and shocked and appalled silence.

In the end, after suffering through an entire six week session with the Mommy Mafia, the ladies asked if I would be willing to teach their class on a different day. My class was great, but Fridays didn’t work so well since they liked to travel, take long weekends, go to their husband’s business golf tournaments, etc. My response? “Uh…no. Sorry. Friday is the only day that I’m teaching right now.” So, with that, my Mommy Mafia Music Class was over. Phew. Thank God that was done. I’d suffered enough.

The whole experience was such a reminder of the clique-drama of seventh grade. While I recognized, all the while, that I have very little respect for these women, if anything I feel sorry for them, their seemingly cold lives and their confused priorities and principles, I still found myself trying to impress them. My inner seventh grader wanted to fit in to their “popular girls’ clique” and be thought of as cool. Lame. Totally lame.

* * *

7^th grade. Does anyone love it? It’s a time of bad hair, bad clothes, growth spurts, the confusion of puberty, acne, general awkwardness. For me, seventh grade started off full of promise. I was in a clique. Not just any clique, mind you. We were Jenny, Jenni, Jenna, and Natalie. Like a seventh grade law firm of Cruelness or Coolness (or so we thought), we walked the walls arm-in-arm, sharing private jokes and laughing at lunch until milk shot out our noses.

Jenna and I had been best friends since first grade. While the years had been occasionally marked by drama – third grade: Jenna seemed to choose Sarah over me, fifth grade: Elizabeth came into the picture and temporarily stole my spot by Jenna’s side – I knew that we were totally BFF (Best Friends Forever). We adopted Jenni and Natalie, welcomed them into our fold. I knew all along though, that if I had to choose just one to save in a fire it would be Jenna. No question.

The four of us decided to play a quartet for a band competition: the Jennies on flute, Natalie and Jenna honking on the clarinet. The night before the competition we were all invited to spend the night at Jenna’s. My parents, being the wise-ones that they are, recognized that I wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep at Jenna’s house, and so I stayed home. (Totally like the lameness of the century, at the time)!

The morning of the competition, my life took a nasty turn for the worse. Unbeknownst to me, the other three girls had talked about me all night long during my absence. With Jenna as their leader, they decided I was not to be in their club any longer. I was chubby, had acne, wasn’t allowed to watch MTV, and didn’t shop at the Gap. My naturally curly hair, cut short, was just a big afro; I was too loud and laughed too much. The list went on. And on. And on. And I was out.

They proceeded to become masters in the cruelty that comes naturally to seventh grade girls. It’s a skill, and a gift, a force to be reckoned with. Jenni, Jenna, and Natalie went full-force on their campaign to ditch me, all-the-while belittling my very existence by constant harassment, using code names for me but talking about me right there in class, on the bus, in the halls. Mocking anything that they could come up with, they took my every inadequacy and used it for ammo. Like hyenas on a group kill, they totally took me out.

I spent days, weeks even, crying. My Mom took me to the guidance counselor at school (oh the agony). It does help to have your mom working at the school though. The girls were called into the counselor’s office. They were called into the principal’s office. Their parents were called. Harassment was against school policy and it needed to stop or there would be serious consequences.

Through all this, my other friends – the ones that I’d put on the back burner while I was fully committed to my much cooler friends – welcomed me back with open arms. To this day, my friend Rachel has always been there for me. She was a bridesmaid in our wedding, and we’ve run a half marathon together. She has provided endless support to me and my boys; she is Matthew’s favorite Auntie. Perhaps most important of all, she loves me unconditionally – even with my fluffy afro hair, whatever skin imperfections I may have, whatever size I may be, whatever emotional state I am in.

* * *

Seventh grade was rough, but I’ve gotten over it, right?

Back to my contemporary clique issues, when I saw these two ladies at the play gym this week, I realized that I was spending so much of my own energy judging them. I was back to being the completely insecure seventh grader again. These women, who I claim are so judgmental, probably don’t waste one thought on me. So, why did I feel all these bitter feelings towards them?

One of the ladies now has four-year-old Kate, an almost two-year-old, and a five week old. She was sitting there, drinking her latte, chatting with the other Mafia Mom while the nanny carried the infant and chased after the other kids. Am I jealous that she has a nanny? No, not really. While sure, help occasionally is great, I’d never trade my full-time hands-on Mommy job for the world. Was I jealous of her latte? Probably. Was I jealous of her obvious wealth? No. (Mike and I love the question: If you won the lottery, what would you do? How would you change your life? We wouldn’t change a thing.) So, what’s my deal?

And then I figured out what my beef was with this lady. At five weeks postpartum, she was out-and-about, nursing with no difficulty, walking with no signs of doing bed rest, she looked amazing, and she was already back in her size 4 designer jeans. It was at this point, that I looked down at my boys – Matthew riding on the John Deere tricycle, Zachary climbing on the baby slide – things may have been hard for me, may BE hard for me, my pregnancies and postpartum experiences have not been ideal or stress-free, but I would never, NEVER trade any of it. Not even for the money, the nanny, or the just-postpartum-size 4 designer jeans. The daily lattes would be nice, but I’m surviving nicely on my home-brewed coffee, and my weekly treat of a Starbucks. I’m in it for the kids, not the lattes.