Two of the three social groups to which I belong have recently collapsed into inertial heaps. I am trying not to take this personally.

The dust is still wafting from the disintegration of Book Club (second rule of Book Club: Don’t talk about Book Club!). It’s hard to believe that the group has disbanded, because many Book Club members had ties that extended back years. I was one of the least-connected members, and I’ve known three of the other women for over a decade. That’s what made Book Club great; light on the get-to-know-you chit-chat, heavy on the textured conversation and subtle jokes that grew from and built on the deep background we all had on one another.

Unfortunately, this environment made it difficult for Book Club to attract the new blood needed to keep the organism vital. We tried to court new members, but they were scared off by the dynamic — “You pack of vultures,” I believe one rushee called us. This epithet was undeserved, I think, but it was a challenging group — I could see where a raptorial image would spring to mind. So the pack dwindled until it was impossible to maintain a quorum. I was keenly disappointed because we broke up just before we were scheduled to discuss Edith Wharton’s Roman Fever, which contains a terrific short story, “Xingu,” about a book club at least as bitchy as ours. A Book Club about a book about a Book Club! Oh, so meta.

The other organization that fell apart was Aitch’s play group, a more artificial construct arranged by the local mother’s club. Nap schedules were the ostensible downfall of the group, but I think apathy and boredom might have winnowed the herd there, too. Nonetheless, the mother’s club efficiently intervened and reassigned me to more a favorable napping cohort. My new play group (the early afternoon nappers) seems to be going well, but I find myself slightly apprehensive about attending, much more so than the Book Club meetings, “pack of vultures” nonwithstanding.

Whenever I get together with a group of random mothers, either by design or by accident, a little subtext runs through my brain: “I can’t slip up! They’ll crucify me if they get the chance!” Consequently, I’m on my best behavior at play group. I avoid religion and politics as conversational topics. I refrain from swearing. Upon pain of death, I compel Aitch to take turns and share. When it’s my turn to provide the snacks, I cut the grapes into atom-sized pieces, although I let Aitch eat them whole at home. I am decidedly en garde.

I’m not sure why this is. I’ve never been criticized at a play group. All the other mothers have been perfectly pleasant. During formal mother’s club events, many women have introduced themselves to me and welcomed me to the group. (At one such event, I introduced one nice woman to Husband, saying, “This is Kay, she just bought that house out on Island Road we looked at last month,” to which he responded, “That dump?!” and she still talks to me.) So this received wisdom that women are bitches who will stab you in the back does not hold up, at least in this situation. What is it, then?

After giving it some thought, I’ve concluded that monitoring a toddler makes me so scatterbrained that it puts me at a huge social disadvantage, and it is the potential for making a huge faux pas that makes me defensive and paranoid. Aitch is not a daredevil, but he is rather impervious to pain, and he is likely to run into the street or jump down the stairs if he sees an opening. Mommy multitasking dulls my wits to the point where I can barely remember the most basic information about a conversational partner.

The afore-mentioned “Xingu,” in fact, contains a wonderful description of a character who embodies my brain-on-Aitch: “Her mind was an hotel where facts came and went like transient lodgers, without leaving their address behind, and frequently without paying for their board.” Case in point: Last week, my playgroup was scheduled to meet at a playground. I arrived early and kept one eye out for people while I ran after Aitch. I was greeted by name by a woman who looked similar to one of the women in the playgroup. (Aitch dashed up a set of open stairs.) I assumed I was suffering from faces-out-of-context syndrome (Aitch went down the slide backwards), and she was indeed that woman (Aitch ran for the river), but I was confused by the fact that she was rocking an infant, because this woman had a two-year-old (Aitch ran in front of a swing) and was only a few months pregnant with her second. “Who’s baby is this?” I asked, and she gave me an odd look. “It’s my new baby. Denise, it’s Karen. Don’t you remember me?” It was a woman from my old playgroup. Now, I could remember everything about this woman I had ever seen in print–her e-mail address, her home address, the name of her new baby — but in my distracted state, I had mis-recognized her.

Is it any wonder I think that people are talking trash about me behind my back?