Help! I Can't Talk to Other Non-friend Parents!

Covid-19 can affect your sinuses, your muscles, your respiratory system, your physical wellbeing. But it can also affect something else: basic social skills. Or at least it has mine. 

Exhibit A of my derelict ability to intermix: daycare dropoff.

I have a two-year old. His daycare is but a few Brooklyn blocks from our apartment, tucked away on the ground floor of a cozy old brownstone. Nice, right? Idyllic even?

It is, except for this: other parents drop off and pick up their child at the same time. You heard me. At the same time. And that means only one, dreadful thing…

Small talk with loose acquaintances. 

AaaaaaagggghhHHhhxjhfiSEgfsXcvbv! 

Look, I can have a forty-five-minute conversation with a complete stranger on the subway. I can bullshit for hours with friends and family. But those in-between people, the ones you kinda-sorta know but who aren’t really a part of your life, that’s a whole different jar of cornichons, my friend.

Throw in the fact that the only common ground I currently share with these people is parenting… God help me. 

But what is it about this weird middle-ground of familiarity? 

And why, as a somewhat stable adult without any glaring chemical imbalances, do I have such a hard time with this level of communication? It’s like having conversational yips.

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TALKING ME GOOD STILL AT?

There is a seismic difference between being a childless New Yorker and a childful New Yorker. Much more of a gulf than between a single New Yorker and a married New Yorker, or a dog-owning New Yorker and one without a canine companion. (Because pets, for all their amazingness, are not children. Sorry, dogparents.)

And when you clear that gulf into parenthood, there is quite a bit to get used to on the other side – which will come as a surprise to absolutely no one. Sure, there’s all the being-fully-responsible-for-a-growing-human stuff. Fine. It’s in the job description. But the interacting as such with the outside world, especially those in your child-rearing demographic? Vexing!

This is of course exacerbated by the insularity thrust upon us by the pandemic. Coming out of that prolonged cocoon, I definitely don’t feel like a butterfly. More like a deformed moth-mutant that’s just difficult to look at.

So, now this moth-mutant has to somehow kill three minutes with another moth-mutant, until our kids come bursting out guns blazing from daycare and there’s no more time for superficial discourse between adults who don’t want to have it anyway.

It’s funny though. I have no rational idea why this particular anxiety of mine is a thing. For example, imagine if, instead of another parent standing next to me, we were just two people holding turtles. We’d probably be able to turn to each other and have a comfortable, in-depth conversation about our turtles. We’d talk about their routines, their personalities, their quirks, are you feeding them crickets or dandelion leaves, etc. We might even take down each other’s emails.

But, switch it back to kids instead of shelled amphibians and I tense up. Here’s an extract from a recent exchange between myself and a fellow daycare father who’s name I’m 92% sure I know:

OTHER DAD: (trying to break ice) “So, you saw the daycare’s email about testing?”

ME: “Yeah, totally, Covid sucks.”

(Long pause. Other Dad unsure what to do with that. I feel pressure for a more coherent follow-up.)

ME: “But, y’know… we’re well-seasoned when it comes to that.”

Well-seasoned, Joe? Really? Are we tuna steaks? Of course, I meant that we were already so used to all this Covid madness that daycare testing was just another thing to deal with. Which I could have easily just said in that way right then and there. Instead I blurt out some quasi-relevant thought fragment, like a malfunctioning robot. Someone fix me.

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PARENTING IMPOSTER SYNDROME

In a city full of people walking down the street who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about you, I’m somehow worried about how I seem as a parent. Not even my core parenting values. But literally how I look out there ushering a kid around. It’s a form of Imposter Syndrome – an affliction usually reserved for fresh-faced promotees and actors who get their foot in the door.

Imposter Syndrome is the fear that someone is going to suddenly turn to you and point out that you don’t deserve to be here, you don’t know what you’re doing, and your elevation has been a terrible mistake – confirming what you and everybody secretly knew anyway.

In the right moment of piercing self-doubt, if a person were to say that, I might straight up give them my kid with an apology. “You’re right, wise stranger. I was mistaken in my hubris.” Thankfully, nobody has told me this and I haven’t once handed my child to a rando on the street. (Pat on the back.)

But it goes to show that we new NYC parents need a gentle, encouraging reminder every now and then (and yes, I’m stealing this from Bluey): “Don’t worry. You’re doing great.”

Maybe someday, as my kid gets older, I’ll finally shake the Covid and toddler cobwebs out of my brain. I’ll finally engage parenting acquaintances with confidence, charm, and clarity. And who knows, maybe turn one of those acquaintances into, dare I say it, a friend.

Relax, Joe. One insane thing at a time.

Courtesy: Unsplash