Where I live, we have a little thing called Gymboree. It’s practically required for the first-time parent. Not because it makes you a better, more caring parent. And not because it forces you to spend quality time with your child who never leaves your side. Gymboree is a social/community status requirement in these parts.

For those unfamiliar with Gymboree, it’s age-specific classes that a mother or father attends with their child (most popular with babies and parents, I would say from my experience) that encourage your child’s development with sensory experiences and music and spastic eruptions of giddiness not really conceivable from a flailing parent such as myself.

E-man was my first born and I thought that Gymboree was something a good parent did with their baby. But I did it anyway. I paid waaaay too much and signed us up for weekly hours of too much singing and an overdose of glycerin-based bubbles.

Now, to be fair, in a setting outside of Southern California where being pretentious is a way life and not just an attitude, Gymboree might actually be productive. It might actually be fun and useful and worth it. But where I live, it’s a status thing. It’s a check-box on the Good Parent List. It’s… dreadful.

In our class, there were only two kinds of parents. The first being the parents who sent their nanny’s to Gymboree with their child for some quality mommy and me time. The second species of parents being the husband-and-wife combo who come together gleefully or take turns while one spends the hour at the gym and the next time the other gets to use the Bowflex at home instead. These breeds of parents are especially fascinating because it’s always of great concern to me where and how and huh? when do they work or make money or bring in an income that’s legal? The answer is usually something along the lines of the husband owning some internet-based business that allows him to telecommute and work from home. Huh. You mean to tell me these people are making money while walking their kids across the balance beam? I got to get me a job like that.

Gymboree class always opened with a question for the parents, each of us sitting cross-legged on the mat, sans shoes, waiting for our turn around the circle to answer "What is your most favorite household chore?" I learned quickly to sit strategically so I wouldn’t have to answer first and could sample what other people offered up. This particular question always confused me because I had no idea that we were supposed to like household chores at all — let alone have a favorite. I literally had to mentally unclench my fists when the lady across from me replied with, "Oh, well that would have to be writing the check for the maid!" As the other mothers, nannies and the one token dad joined in with their "I know what you mean!" giggles, I was trying to choke down the vomit that had surfaced in my mouth so I could sheepishly respond with, "Um, I don’t know, the laundry maybe?"

HA! Maybe I subconsciously picked laundry as my favorite because I seldom feel the urge to actually do it. Who knows.

Once we’ve all been enlightened with the Q&A of far-removed parents, it’s time to move on to the next task in Gymboree World which basically allows the kids free play on all the equipment. You would think this would be easy enough. Play with your child, try to encourage your kid to go through the tunnel. Then urge your child to go through the tunnel. Then scream at your child "IT’S JUST A FRICKIN’ HOLE – FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GO THROUGH IT ALREADY." Yes, it gets a bit awkward when you have to receive the better-than-thou stares from the rest of the parents, but, from experience, I can tell you that it’s no more awkward than having to make small talk with them as your raucous little boy tries to sit on their precious little girl.

After free play, the dreaded parachute comes out. Yes, it’s one of those gigantic multi-colored parachutes you probably had a bout with in elementary school where you all hold the edges, lift it up and allow it to float back down. FASCINATING. I suppose to a child it could be, IF THEY WEREN’T SCARED OUT OF THEIR FRIGGIN’ MINDS BY IT.

E-man was particularly disenchanted by the parachute and each class the instructor/dictator told me, "Oh, he will be fine. Just put him underneath with the other kids. He will LOVE it."

"WHAT??? I CAN’T HEAR YOU OVER MY SCREAMING, TERRIFIED CHILD. WHAT DID YOU SAY? HE WILL LOATHE IT? NO SHIT!"

OK, so that’s what I wanted to say. Meanwhile I’m mouthing "I’m sorry" to E-man over and over again as all the parents are told to set our kids on the parachute and drag them around in circles to — I don’t know? — see if they were born with their equilibrium nerve?

E-man and I did go the full 8 week course. Partly because I wanted my money out of it and partly because I was still under the impression that it was the right thing to do. But it wasn’t long before I realized I could sing REALLY LOUD and out-of-tune to him at home and without the sensory overload or overwhelming parachute. Despite dropping out of Gymboree, amazingly, somehow, by some random miracle, E-man still managed to develop just fine.

I may be slow sometimes, but if you give me enough time (in this case, only 8 short humiliating weeks!) I’ll figure it out. Hell, I have three kids now and I’m already beginning to get used to the idea of this "parenting" thing.