It has been twelve years since we got married. Twelve years since we moved into this house. I honestly can’t believe it’s been that long. Sometimes when I look in the rear view mirror I think, who the hell are these kids? And why are they so damn loud?
Sometimes I feel so young. I’m somewhere in my mid-twenties maybe. I drive around and in my head I’m thinking people look at me and must think I’m the nanny. She’s way too young and cool to have all those kids and drive a minivan. But today, for the first time, I questioned whether people really ever do think that.
Sometimes when we’re in a store, such as Target, I sense people staring at me. So naturally, I assume they’re thinking, wow, look at the way this young nanny handles those kids. So I always blurt out, I know what you’re thinking, but, actually, they are all mine. I know I look way too young to have all of these darlings, but they’re really mine. All mine. Then I’m met with an even weirder look.
For some reason today something dawned on me. Maybe they don’t think I’m the nanny. Maybe people see me for what I am. A forty-year-old mom of four who drives a minivan. Could this be?
No. It can’t be. I’m super young and super cool.
Yes, the waistline of my jeans have become a little higher. And truth be told, I LOVE my minivan. I swear to you I’d have one even if I didn’t have kids. Well maybe not. But I really feel strongly about it.
The doors open automatically. Do you know how hard it is to open car doors while trying to carry multiple children and ten bags of groceries? And the stow and go? Forget about it.
It has made road trips so doable. We no longer look like the Beverly Hillbillies when driving to Michigan for the weekend. You’d be a damn fool not to have a minivan.
A few years ago I stopped shopping in the junior’s section. Once I birthed little girls, I vowed I wouldn’t be the mom who dressed like her daughters. I was thirty-five at the time. And I’ve stuck to my guns.
So I always try to dress age appropriate. I bet that’s why people think I’m the mom now. Perhaps I need to go back to shopping in the junior’s section?
But I really like my high-waisted jeans. I feel as if my butt-crack should be covered at all times. Wow. That’s a real mom thing to say. If I really was young and cool I wouldn’t care about my butt-crack.
I cut my hair short. In an attempt to be young and cool. Because P!nk has short hair. And she’s a mom and she’s cool.
But guess who else had short hair? My mom. Could it be I look more like my mom than P!nk?
My mom was pretty cool. For a mom. But not cool like P!nk cool.
My mom was a moms mom. She said things like, clean up your act. And, I hope you have ten kids just like you. She licked her thumb and wiped my face with it.
She drank alcohol and became fun.
Just. Like. I. Do.
The other day I yelled at one of my kids for using too many paper towels. What do you think? That this stuff just grows on trees?
Well, I guess it does. But the point is, it upset me that she was wasting paper towels. At an alarming rate.
Young, cool, people don’t get upset about that stuff. Unless you’re a hippie. And I think I’d rather be my mom than a hippie. Hippies have even more rules than my mom.
I also found myself losing my sh!t over some tinfoil. Someone took some tinfoil off of something and put it in the garbage. I walked past it, and thought to myself, now why in the hell would somebody throw away some perfectly good foil? And I’ll be damned if I didn’t take it out of the garbage and reuse it.
Just. Like. Mom.
And don’t even get me started on paying five dollars for a box of cereal. Sorry kids, not this week. Let’s wait until it’s on sale. Or until I have a coupon.
Oh my God. I think I’m going to be sick.
I’m really starting to think I actually have more in common with my mom than P!nk. When the hell did this happen? Is this a mid-life crisis?
I’ll take the mid-life part. That means I’ll live well into my seventies. My mom’s life ended when she was fifty-four and woke up one morning dying of cancer. So I’m forever counting the years I have left until I’m fifty-four. I’ll take the twenty more years. But I don’t like this crisis part.
What do I do now? Get a perm? I’m so lost. How do I act forty yet not like my mom?
I don’t even know where to begin. Do I let my roots grow out? Not that I have roots. Wink.
I guess I’ll start by opening a box of wine. Wait. When did boxed wine become acceptable?
I used to sneak into the fridge and steal my mom’s boxed wine because she had no way of telling how much was missing. And now I have my very own box.
Oh. Dear. God. It’s official.