Embracing my inner yuppie mommy

Tonight I became the mommy who sits outside the classroom, chatting with the other mommies about our children. Actually, not quite, since I didn't talk to anybody, but I see it coming. I took Dutch to her first ballet class (a free trial, but there was no doubt in anybody's mind that she'd enroll for more classes), and sat there in the lobby with lots of well-groomed mommies, shepherding their younger/older children while waiting for little Sophia/Olivia/Laurel/Helena/Teagan/Roan/Arden to emerge from the tutelage of Miss Michelle. It made me feel a little queasy. Dutch is putting some of her birthday cash toward the classes, it's not that expensive, and I know she'll love it, so I don't regret doing it ... but there's something so... smug-yuppie-mommy about enrolling your 4-year-old in ballet class. I'm not really comfortable with it. Happily, there was one not-obviously-yuppie-y young Latino father there, eagerly watching his daughter through the little observation window, and his presence made me feel a little better. But then I thought about myself, sitting there (studying for my real estate development exam) in my Danskos and down vest, waiting for my own yuppie-named daughter... and it became clear that I should just come to terms with this. I AM a yuppie mommy. A poor, disheveled, frumpy yuppie mommy, but still.