Until last week I hadn’t set foot in a playgroup for years. My eldest son, now six is in year one at school and my youngest, just five weeks old, has a few months to go before he’s ready for blocks and biscuits. Yet I was meeting a new friend with a newborn who also has an active toddler so she suggested we meet at her local playgroup.
Walking into that church hall on a rather soggy Thursday morning was confronting and to be honest, not all that appealing. I had just left the calm confines of a local hipster cafe and was cursing myself for agreeing to this as a squealing two-year-old hurled a pull-along-dog into my ankle.
For the princely sum of two dollars I decided that I had nothing to lose, so I signed up and joined the club. I was given the grand tour of the two large adjoining rooms filled with toys, kids (lots of kids) mums, grandmas and one or two grandads.
On doing the introductory rounds I was repeatedly apologised to about it ‘not usually being this noisy’, due to the rain and out-of-bounds garden area. But 20 minutes in, and after chatting to the friendly woman and her in-laws who ran the group, I felt ashamed for being a judgmental snob and I made myself at home on an old comfy sofa.
I spoke to a number of mums, some from overseas with no family nearby, who all seemed to know each other well. One of the ladies had bought in a delicious homemade morning tea to go with the provided tea and coffee, another got busy distributing party food and balloons as it was one of kid’s birthdays.