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I should have put a bit more thought into my outfit.
    As we walked through the gauntlet of family photos, I heard snippets of women’s voices.
    “She’s got dance and soccer on Mondays and Wednesdays, and art and karate on the other days until softball starts,” one said.
    “How’s it going with Pristine’s new show-and-tell coach?” another asked.
    Then a voice of reason. “Isn’t all of this stressful for a kid?”
    “That’s why we do yoga on Sunday nights,” explained the first woman, who turned out to be the infamous Val Monroe.
    My instinct was to about-face and run for the door, but I couldn’t bear to hurt Michelle’s feelings. She was indeed ditsy with her fruit cleanses and American Idol birthday parties, but she started to win me over when she appreciated my ill-conceived broken-glass vases. When she clapped wildly for Maya singing at Ashley’s party, she had me. We’d never be best friends, but she was a decent person, and there was no need to be rude to her just because her life was perfect and mine was quickly spiraling down the crapper.
    When I saw the other women, I realized I definitely should have made more of an effort to look good. Olivia traded in her queen costume for a floral Ann Taylor skirt, cream twin set and pearls. Several adopted a similar look. Then there was Val’s group, the Junta Moms, who appeared to have been lifted from the pages of a Lilly Pulitzer catalog. They showcased their oh-so-whimsical nature with pants trimmed with striped and polka-dotted ribbon that was also used for their tops. One mother added a matching headband that was not only covered in ribbon, but had loopy bows crowning it as well. She looked as if a gift table had exploded on her. Kindness, kindness, Lisa. A very nice gift table. The only other person in a t-shirt was Stacey, who sported a rhinestone-encrusted sage green “Flow” tank top from the Answer store.
    Before the game began, I discreetly pulled Olivia aside, hoping we could put our heads together and stop Max’s bullying of Logan. I decided the best approach was diplomacy rather than accusing her vile son of being the warmongering jackass he undoubtedly was. Instead, I told her I wanted to discuss the “tension” between our boys. As we walked off to a corner of the room, I overheard Barb encouraging Michelle to stop smelling the brownies she baked and just eat one already. Michelle opened her eyes and looked peaceful holding the brownie under her nose. “I have eaten a cookie in my mind,” she told the women. “I am now full and satisfied.”
    “About the boys,” I broached with Olivia.
    “Don’t they just grow up so quickly?” she said, nodding sweetly. “Jim and I were looking at photos and we were amazed at how big they’ve gotten. How did it happen?”
    “You fed them,” I clipped. “About the tension between our sons, I was hoping we could put our heads together and come up with some—”
    Olivia stopped me with a crossing guard gesture. “Lisa, I love these ladies like my very own sorority sisters, but where we part company is that I do not micromanage my boys’ lives. We don’t need to call for a parent summit every time there’s an unkind word between them. Whatever tension our boys are having will work itself out.”
    Clearly she did not understand the seriousness of the problem. “Max is hitting Logan at school,” I explained.
    “Then Logan should hit him right back!” Olivia demanded. “Good and hard too. You need to trust me on this one, honey. I have three boys and this is what they do. They beat each other within inches of their lives, then they’re best friends the next day. It’s healthy for them to get all that testosterone out of their systems. It’s no good if they get all clogged up.”
    My mouth moved, but no words came out immediately. Finally, I managed to speak. “I don’t want your son unclogging himself on mine.”
    She laughed. Olivia McDoyle actually laughed. Not a Cruella de Vil