Yesterday afternoon I took Miss C to buy her pink ballet slippers at the local dance studio where she’ll be taking a six-week ballet princesses course starting tomorrow. I assumed they had the shoes in stock and then realized they had to be ordered and won’t ship until next week. So, I did what every good mother who has dropped the ball does in order to shield her child from mommy’s little screw ups. I improvised and embellished (which sounds much nicer than lying). I told Miss C that her new dance shoes would be waiting for her next week and that she would “get” to wear her favorite Hello Kitty tennis shoes to her first class tomorrow night.

But I digress.

We arrived as a class was dismissing. The studio was a blur of pink tights and leotards. The girls rushed to their proud parents outside the classroom. The tiniest little girl, her tousled brunette hair pulled up in a pony tail, emerged red-faced and bawling. Her mother headed toward her while holding the hand of a little boy I assumed was baby brother. My heart broke for the little girl. I’m not sure what happened but she was clearly having A Moment. I was relieved to see her mother did not hesitate to comfort her. That is, until she opened her mouth.

OH MY GOD. She began to console her daughter in the most annoying sing song baby talk fake mommy saccharine voices I have ever heard in my life. She was laughing and chuckling and shushing like nobody’s business. It was a state I’ve witnessed before—the sing song mommy voice zone. For a split second I thought, “Wow, I wonder what sort of happy mommy drugs she’s taking?” This was quickly followed by, “I wonder where can I get some?”

I’m all for the cooing cadence of baby talk when children are babies. I love to snuggle with the girls and drive them crazy with mama kisses, but the over the top sing song mommy voice creeps me out. I’ve heard it whem moms are in Target and their kids are beet red and wailing and the moms are pushing their red carts like zombies, sipping their Starbucks frappuccinos, and staring into space. Come to think of it, Target always puts me into a relaxed Zen like state, too. I’ve heard it at the playground when a child has a tantrum over leaving and the parent slowly heading toward their minivan, keys in hand, eyes wide. I’m never really certain whether they truly are that laid back (or they are smoking ganja in the car pool lane), or if they’re about to snap.

I can’t be too critical, though, because the creepy sing song mommy voice tried to suck me under during a particularly unpleasant morning at church with the girls recently. And at least it is more pleasant and genteel than the WalMart redneck mama holler: “You gonna git a whippin!!” or “Git your ass in the cart!”