There were two camps at my neighbors' BBQ today - the hosts' co-workers (urban, childless and fabulous who collect actual paychecks and think Andersonville is the suburbs) and the group I fall into, the block moms whose annual income covers the household orange juice budget.
Kids were literally drawing lines to divide us with pastel chalk. I stayed on my side at first. I felt a little simple with my ten kids strapped to me and no idea what to say to an accountant. Or whatever it is they do downtown.
Cell phones are the new cigarettes in awkward in a social situations, so I whipped mine out and checked my email. I got a message that my pal Stacey was in a waiting room thumbing through The Bump Chicago magazine and stumbled upon something surprising on pages 18 and 19 - a two-page glossy spread of me!
About a year ago The Bump was doing a project about birth diaries and one of their editors thought my blog would be a good fit for an article. After a grueling and promising flurry of rewrites, it looked like they were going to print my stuff but, as things happen, they forgot about me and haven't returned my emails in ten months. I figured I was toast.
Well according to Stacey I'm not toast! I'm in The Bump! My self-esteem felt pretty shiny, so I introduced myself to some business types and in a bizarro moment, one of them cited something she had read about our neighborhood and all the little girls who live here.
Don't worry. The self esteem cloud burst when I asked a woman at the grocery store if they had any copies of The Bump this month. She snarled at me and said she had never heard of it. Eh, I'm still small potatoes.