The Bouncers

I am not, have never wanted to be, a mom. I have a few friends who are not moms. Some by choice, some by chance. We all wonder what it would be like, but I also think that at the end of the day we are each happy to have our lives to ourselves, to take care of our animals, and to not have to worry about paying tuition. And after a certain amount of time, our parents stop asking those questions, accepting things as they are. We sit at Christmas Dinner and hear tales of everyone's kids, little to add other than the current state of the dogs' neurosis and our cats' antics. I have a very good group of friends who live this life along with me. The odd women out in some ways. By choice or by chance.

I also have many friends who are moms. Good moms. Cool moms. Easy-going moms.

And then there are The Bouncers. I've only recently been introduced to this sort of thing. You see, I've learned that the mom has controlled access to the children. I've also learned grandparents are jonesing to get by the velvet rope to see those kids. And there's the mom, at the door. And because they want to get in, I've noticed some grandparents are putting up with some atrocious behavior on The Bouncer's part, because if you are mean to The Bouncer, her arms fold over and she looks past you, looking for someone who is more worthy to get into Club Grandchild.

Lotta power there dancing around those velvet ropes.

My childless friends and I talked about this, and we've decided that The Bouncers are drunk with power. But we've also decided that these few years of dictatorship will lead to decades of accepting one simple reality of life: you aren't in charge for long. It comes fluttering home in the form of back talk and disobedience, teenage rebellion and young adulthood independence. And sooner or later, The Bounder is on the other side of the ropes, begging to get in...

Meanwhile, my powerless, inability to control my animals is a pretty steady gig. No velvet ropes to bar or protect. Just nylon collars and shedding.