I Heart Brooklyn Heights Montessori

Last night, Dave and I went to a New Parents event for Clio's school, hosted at the fabulous brownstone of a current parent and board member. On the way there, looking at my limited maternity wardrobe and Dave's cool but beat-up sneakers, I found myself wondering if we would be the shabby/ arty/ casual/ not-so-well-off parents in a room full of bankers and fashionistas. (In contrast to my hippie/earthy memories of my own Montessori school, the prospective parents at our orientation back in October all seemed to be wearing expensive suits (men) and Sex and the City heels (women).) What would we talk about? Who were these Montessori imposters?

I needn't have worried. Much of the crowd was not so different from us- down to the detail that half the room seemed to be pregnant (and another woman is counting down the same 3-ish weeks as me.) Dave and I had about the best time we've had in weeks, and made fast friends with two couples whose kids are also starting the "twos" program, architects all, who even (small world) went to school with the principles in Dave's firm (who also designed Creative Time's offices for me). What did we talk about? Our children, sure (Nap Wars and Boy Energy, two excellent topics); the school, of course (the verdict on the spring fundraising auction: "raucous," perhaps too much too soon; Dave's feelings on the head of school's insistence on "needing our children" while he waits for grandchildren of his own: "Creepy"), but also public art, architecture, the City Planning Department, and a junkie squat in Gowanus known as the Bat Cave, among other wide-ranging, real-world topics. It was a refreshing mix - it often feels like my parent self, my work self, and my intellectual/cultural self get split, and it was nice to feel like more of a whole person in a single situation.

In grand Duggan tradition, we closed down the party (and went out to dinner all together.) Another sign of kindred spirits: one of the couples confirmed that they, like we, don't know how to leave an event until they're kicked out.

Shortly before leaving, I put my hands on my waist (or what's left of it) and felt something slimy: a slug. (I should mention that we spent most of the evening in the slightly rainy garden, under a big tree). We saved the slug and returned it to the great outdoors, and later that night I noticed a trail of slime zig-zagging from my ankle all the way up to my back: the slug had taken a long, slow journey up my body, and I hadn't even noticed. If that's not a sign of a good time, I don't know what is.