TMI

March 31, 2014

I remember as a teenager living with the constant-well not constant, more like when I took a break from fussing about my hair, or my boyfriend, or how to get a ride to the ticket scalper- concern that my mom would embarrass me. I knew she would, she was my mom. She had an accent. She knew things about me, which is not surprising, she’d given birth to me.  She had seen me in diapers and been the one that walked me thru tampons.

My mother’s nature did not make her the Gary Cooper of moms. But nor did she over share, actually in my teenage years we had as little to do with each other as possible. And even now, we have a mutually agreed upon pact of silence. I wasn’t easy, she wasn’t easy. As a matter of fact, we were both mean as hell. I will leave it at that.

Now, things are a lot more complicated. My kids and I have a pretty healthy relationship, right now anyway. But the potential for me to cross the line, stick the foot in, piss them off- any minute I’m going to reveal something horrible. There is facebook, wordpress, instagram, text messages, emails,  and actual conversations.

And they are alert and waiting to catch me. While I scan the history for porn, or any evidence that Katy really does like One Direction, they are checking up on me. “Mom, I didn’t say you could post that.” “Mom, why did you pick that picture”” “Mom, don’t tell Gramma I’m sick.” “Mom, don’t tell Jen I feel better. I don’t feel better.” “You can tell Maggie I feel better, but that it might be temporary.”
It’s a matter of seconds before I’m thrown in kid jail and they stop leaning in to kiss me good night. Actually that’s history. I have to find them, then I do the leaning. I brush my teeth first, I rehearse topics of conversation, I bite my tongue when I notice the pile of dirty clothes under the bed, or, more often the pile of clean clothes under the pile of dirty clothes. I brush and bite my tongue and land my kiss on a cheek that might still have a spot of egg from breakfast just above the lip. I bite my tongue. I say good night. And most nights, I head right to my own bed

To avoid just this, the overwhelming temptation to reveal that-

yes, I am a mom. I’m proud and I’m ecstatic and sometimes I’m disgusted and I truly don’t know how on earth I’m going to get thru the next twenty years.

Wanna dance?

 

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