Spit up and the Suburbs

It all started randomly, really—or more likely what Alyssa Keadon did next was the result of an entire lifetime of dealing with mean girls, from the third grade, until now. 

Either way, tonight wasn’t just another, humdrum back-to-school night. Tonight was the night that shifted something deep inside of Alyssa, and there was no turning back once the idea took root.

The exact moment she knew she was just done played out like a nightmare as Alyssa walked briskly into her daughter’s brightly lit classroom, the teacher already having begun the night’s discussion (being on time when you have five kids isn’t really an option). 

Who should be sitting right there, front and center among the sea of teeny desks? Trish McCabe. 

Yes, the same Trish McCabe who lived in her house before she did, and now everyone said by way of introducing her, “Alyssa lives in Trish’s old house.” As if the house would forever and always belong to the queen bee of Almería, no matter how long ago she moved out to build a bigger, better home in the more expensive section of the community.

Trish. The all-powerful PTO president of Almería Elementary School, and default room mom year after year after year after year. Trish practically had a degree in volunteering her time. 

Indeed, she must hold a PRMD, Professional Room Mom degree, which officially licenses one to bring popsicles to the playground, organize obnoxious theme days at school that only serve to stress out other moms, and outdo all other parents with over-the-top, eye-rolling gifts for Teacher Appreciation Week. Alyssa heard a rumor that last year, Trish gave her kid’s teacher $100 in cold hard cash—and a Kendra Scott necklace. Kinda puts a $10 Starbucks card to shame, doesn’t it?

Of course, Trish’s talent for room momming was unparalleled, and on some level, sure, Alyssa appreciated her efforts if only because it meant that she herself could slink into the shadows, and not be up all night Googling “third grade holiday class party games.”

Perky and poised with a pen in hand, ready to take copious notes about the evening was the very same Trish who was always tagged in those obnoxious Facebook posts from parties Alyssa wasn’t invited to. 

The queen bee and her hive of hangers-on never ran out of ideas for get-togethers. There was the golf theme night, when the moms competed to don the shortest skirts possible. Don’t forget about the costume party for the over-the-hill Halloween habitués. This annual occasion marked the night when the moms jockeyed to see who could dress the sluttiest. Alyssa had to wonder: Since when is there such a thing as a trampy giraffe? 

For almost every one of these gag-inducing events, a party bus was involved, naturally. How else would these moms be able to get sloshed, and still transport home safely from a concert, or winery, or to camp out in line overnight for some new, trendy beignet place opening up downtown? 

Upon seeing every one of their eye-rolling post on social media, Alyssa couldn’t help but wonder why this clique was so desperate to escape the seemingly-perfect lives they’d created with their spouses, two children, confoundingly expensive cars (because everyone needs a G-wagon for the trunk space, no?), and 5-bedroom, 4.5-bathroom, 5,000-square-foot houses. Seemingly any excuse to go out with their fellow fed-up mom friends would do, Monday through Sunday. 

Or did these soirees simply exist to rub it into the faces of their fellow Almería moms who weren’t included that they were missing out, not good enough to make the guest list?

Of course, Alyssa was among the outcasts excluded from these gatherings billed online as “the best night ever!” She was simply an extra, mere Facebook friends with all the leading ladies of the community—who incidentally wouldn’t know her name in real life. How many times had she passed by one of their ranks, expecting that they’d say “hi” only to be ignored offline?

One too many of those encounters later, and these days she simply scrolled with unbridled annoyance past their braggy “friends who are family” posts as quickly as possible. What she really wanted to do was comment, “Who cares?” or “Try doing anything without having to advertise how great it was to all of you followers.”

Meanwhile, tonight at the back-to-school event, “it was giving,” as her teens said, social media posts come to life. Sitting in the very front row of Mr. Caribou’s classroom in their kids’ mini-desks, Trish McCabe and her PTO cronies looked like grown-up teacher’s pets, but with designer handbags and $140 jeans. 

Did any of the flowy, vibrant-hued, embroidered, boutique-blouse-wearing brown nosers turn to look at Alyssa when she walked into the room? Well, yes. But could any of them, with their sloppy-on-purpose mom buns, meticulously crafted to convey the story of how it’d been suuuuch a long day (in case you didn’t know from Facebook), and their trendy statement necklaces, be bothered to smile or mouth a quick “hello” in her general direction? Nope. The blank expressions as their eyes followed Alyssa to her own itty bitty seat at the back of the classroom said it all. It was as if they didn’t even know who she was—or care. 

Indeed, nothing had changed in the past seven years since she moved into the community. Apparently the burden she had to bear this evening was being invisible. 

Again.

Irritated to within an inch of her so-not-on-point flip flops and mere $40 denim, Alyssa plopped down in her daughter’s child-sized desk and tried to keep her fed-up sigh as internal as possible. 

For some reason, the song “Blurry” by Puddle of Mudd began playing in her head. 

Everything’s so blurry and everyone’s so fake

And everybody’s empty and everything is so messed up…

Meanwhile, she barely felt surprised by the PTO moms not registering her existence at this point. It’d been a long time since she’d realized that while every blonde mom in this small, picturesque Florida town was over-the-top friendly at first, no one was actually looking to make a new friend. They’d already established their group, and Alyssa was most certainly not going to be “one of them.” Ever. Message sent. Message received.

Can you take it all away?

Can you take it all away?

Well, you shoved it in my face

This pain you gave to me…

Yup, Alyssa had figured out early on that for some inexplicable reason, she simply didn’t fit in with the Perfect Moms’ Social Club of Almería. 

Were her dresses not flowy enough, her shoes not designery enough, her hair not bleached enough, her face not plastic enough? Whatever the reason, she’d never be able to compete with the CrossFit-obsessed Botox receptacles who ruled the subdivision—that much was as established as the hierarchy of the PMS Club.

Because she didn’t drink the Kool-Aid when it came to modern mom fashion, clearly she wasn’t allowed to play with the popular moms. Truth be told, she’d die before buying $68 Lululemon fakey-fake shorts worn by teens and wannabe “young” moms alike, even if she had copped to purchasing ripped skinny jeans and seasonally-appropriate-hued sweaters at a local boutique.

Let’s get to some seriously important questions: When did every mom start dressing exactly alike? What was with the teenager brand obsessions? Did anyone have an original thought in their heads when it came to getting dressed in the morning? 

Meanwhile, although Alyssa also fairly happily adopted the obligatory trappings of suburban family life, from the standard-issue two-story home, to the super-sized, black SUV, still, for some reason, the PMSers hadn’t invited her to join their ranks. 

Perhaps it was that Alyssa hadn’t volunteered to take on the PTO volunteer badge revamping project at Almería Elementary School. That went to perpetually (perhaps artificially?) ebullient Jessica Mesles, who was collecting feedback in case you’re interested in being part of this revolutionary redesign. Don’t worry; Jessica will treat every suggestion to a rendition of her over-the-top, bogus laugh, whether she thinks it’s a good idea or not.

Meanwhile, Alyssa also refused to pretend— as her peers did—as if she were the earthly embodiment of Mother Mary just because she helped with tasks like handing out pizza at the end-of-year class party. Really, how did they do it with a straight face? As if doling out juice boxes and slices of cheese and sauce on dough was rocket science! The PMS Club took lending a hand at school so seriously, you’d think they were curing cancer! 

News flash: Napkins and apple slices can be divided up on flimsy white paper plates by one person. It doesn’t take nine, or a debate about the best methodology for serving said snack! Alyssa once witnessed a mom skulk away in tears because her proposal to let the kids serve themselves was shot down so vehemently by the PTO regime. 

Alyssa just couldn’t step with all this nonsense. The blank stares she received when she walked into the classroom that night were clearly her punishment. 

She sighed again and pondered if she’d also pissed all these moms off because she declined to wear makeup before 7 a.m. Or was Trish and all her underlings’ indifference toward Alyssa due to her lack of “likes” and kiss-ass comments on snooze-inducing posts on the community moms’ Facebook page? Come on; how could you not gag at a post about a child’s state test scores being so good that a teacher phoned over the weekend to congratulate them? Alyssa called bullshit on that, even when 54 comments poured in praising this family’s dedication to educational excellence. She decided against her urge to ask if anyone else wanted a barf bag.

Now, no matter why this grown up group straight out of “Mean Girls” refused to so much as smile in her direction, it had all come down to this moment, at the back-to-school night, with Trish and her band of Tory Burch-wearing moms having gone from friendly and curious when the Keadons first moved into Almería, to flat out dismissing her existence. With their deafening disinterest on full display there in that classroom, something ignited inside of Alyssa, amid the white boards with prefixes written on them, and posters with mantras like, “You are enough!” scrolled across in cursive.

Alyssa was sick of blending into the scenery, not even worthy of a phony pleasantry—especially since some version of this very moment had been playing out in her life over and over again for as long as she could remember. 

As her daughter’s teacher reviewed the test retake policy at Almería Elementary School, Alyssa’s mind wandered back in time to her college days, long before she’d ever imagined getting married, moving to the suburbs, and starting a family.