What a Playdate Bait + Switch Taught Me about My Village

It was 8:34 a.m. on a Sunday I had already called my mom with the news. 

The baby had a new eyelash. And was not a fan of green beans. Riveting headlines, as usual.

All of the major to-do items of the day had been accomplished. It was just the babe and I to pass the time. My husband John was building a private therapy practice and had taken our only car. 

Fortunately, I had a playdate on the books that day to which I could look forward. I had invited a neighbor mom over, which was more of an excuse to drink coffee and gab until our babies’ next nap. 

Only, when I opened my front door, I found instead my friend’s husband, whom I had met once, and their daughter. He sent his wife’s regrets that she was operating on a deadline. I suddenly regretted my decision not to wear a bra. In fairness, though, I was not counting on a playdate bait and switch. 

The awkwardness was palpable, but we managed to keep the conversation afloat while the kids stayed contained and entertained. He’s one of us, I thought. This dad has signed the invisible contract: we will support other parents in the trenches, and do no harm. Just as I was pouring myself another mug of coffee, the playdate proxy announced it was time for his daughter’s nap.

We bid adieu to the playdates from our front stoop. I turned with my baby in my arms to go back inside, and only then did I begin to wonder if my friend’s husband had indeed signed the contract, or at least read the fine print. Specifically the part about doing no harm.

Because the door handle would not turn. 

We only ever used the dead bolt, never the knob lock. Our children were not yet capable of reaching a doorknob, so I imagine the friend’s husband must have turned the knob lock on our front door as a force of habit. 

It was a balmy 37 degrees F in mid-winter Boston with turbulent winds and I was locked out of my condo with my baby who was still in diapers, and without my phone or my shoes, in addition to the great ignominy of being the neighborhood Erin Go Braless o’ the day. My husband was not due home for another seven hours, in therapy sessions with clients, unreachable by phone.

Should I follow the playdates and ask if we could temporarily crash at their place? My feelings were increasingly moving from irritated to homicidal. A of all, who calls an audible on playdate parent without any notice? B of all, WHO THE FUCK LOCKS THEIR HOSTS OUT OF THEIR OWN HOME? 

I walked the perimeter of our condo building and just as the stress tears were about to fall, our upstairs neighbor, Jimmy, who was all of 24 years-old and whose refrigerator contents were probably a six pack of Bud Light and a jar of mustard, called, “Hey! How are you folks doing?”

I explained our plight, our keylessness and shoelessness and carlessness. I did not mention our bralessness and fresh diaperlessness. 

In a stroke of unparalleled generosity, Jimmy lent me the keys to his car so that I could go to John’s office and retrieve the extra house key.

“See, that’s awesome,” I explained, “but I don’t have the car seat, and--”

Jimmy immediately offered to watch my baby during the time it would take me to get to my husband’s office, retrieve the house keys, and drive home. He insisted my baby would love to watch the New England Patriots with his girlfriend and him. 

To show my appreciation, I handed my offspring over to this relative stranger whose skills in CPR and generally keeping small humans alive were unknown to me. My child seemed psyched to be with anyone other than Boring Mom.

I drove as fast as I could without shoes to my husband’s office, whose whereabouts were slightly fuzzy as I had only driven him there once. This was in the Before Times, before smartphones could geolocate us in the jungle.

I arrived at his office building, a gauntlet of closed office doors, with no idea which was his. Ever the consummate professional, I ran stark-raving wild up and down the corridors, yelling his name at full volume.

Given that my husband had no prior warning of my arrival, when I appeared at his office door without shoes, our child, or an explanation of how I had driven there, he took it quite well - all things considered - and handed over the house keys accordingly. 

Upon my return to our condo, I found our neighbor, St. Jimmy, the newly canonized patron saint of hot mess mothers, upstairs with our child who had been converted into a Pats fan. I soon converted his diaper into a new and improved one. 

Perhaps the biggest conversion occurred in my view of my village. People wax on about the important role of community in raising a child, but sometimes a community can disappoint. Sometimes a community member who should know better locks you out in the cold. But from that same community, you can also receive the greatest compassion and charity in your moments of greatest need. 

I am now divorced from John with whom I co-parent our two teenage children. Last weekend I dropped off the family dog at John’s house and found that I was locked out, as I no longer had a key to his place. Moments later, my youngest son darted in stocking feet to open the door, reminding me that belonging is not a place, but a feeling that envelops, that welcomes you in from out of the cold.