It wasn’t until two months ago that I knew what Lululemon was. And I still don’t know how to pronounce it.
I went to a fancy wedding a few weeks ago and had to text my girl, Amanda, to ask if a deep v-neck dress calls for a long or short necklace. (The answer is long).
“Have you heard about this new thing, My Space?!” –me, last year.
Behind doesn’t even begin to describe me when it comes to fashion or new technology. In fact, my supervisor has
sternly reminded me four times asked me nicely to use a new program at work that she swears will streamline things and make communication easier. Me no wanna.
It’s not because I don’t like to challenge myself or learn new things; quite the contrary actually. It’s just that if I find something that works (flip-flops and no necklace or AOL Instant Messenger, for instance), I work it to death. Kinda like the adage, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” but it’s mostly like the adage, “It’s just easier to maintain, maaan.”
I’ve been in the mom cave a bit too long, and without apology, the world and trends have continued to evolve without me.
Right before my tired eyes, my kids are evolving, too. I couldn’t wait for the day when they would play together and have adorable conversations that would require subtitles if they were televised. That’s exactly what they were doing this morning, and when I tried to join in the fun, I was literally escorted out of the room. My two-year-old took me gently by the hand, showed me to the door, and asked that I ” ‘tay down’tairs, peeze.”
Conjuring my best Stephanie Tanner here: how rude!
My son has started swimming on his own as opposed to wrapping his legs around my waist, effectively cutting off oxygen and blood circulation to my lower half. He’s so proud of himself in those orange swimmies, floating and kicking without my shadow lurking over him.
What is going on?!
This past weekend we celebrated the kids’ birthdays, and at the end of the night, my son was hosting a jam session in the playroom. He gave his uncle a drum, his aunt a flute, his grandma a xylophone. I gravitated toward the sweet beats and just as I poked my head into the room, he cut the music faster than every director should have cut Keanu Reeves’s speaking roles: “Mom! You were not invited!”
So I birth these humans, sustain their young lives single-handedly for their first year on earth, wipe their dirty butts, kiss their boo-boos, and THIS?! I get “you were not invited please stay downstairs?!”
Then I wonder if I deserve the ostracism because, admittedly, there were days that I couldn’t wait to be done nursing my daughter. And I distinctly remember fearing my son would be in diapers for-ev-er.
A month shy of her first birthday, she decided we were done. No weaning. No tearful goodbye. Just “me done.”
He doesn’t even need a potty seat any more; he hoists himself atop his porcelain throne and handles his bidness in private.
StOp ThE iNsAnItY!
Logically, I understand my kids are stretching their legs and giving this independence thing a shot, and truly, I am grateful. I want them to be soulful contributors to society; not leeches who sponge off of me and my husband, so not needing me to play with them is a good thing.
Emotionally, though, what the eff, kids?! I made you, now you let me join the tea party, dammit!
I don’t know that I’ll ever wrap my head around jeggings, but I certainly see how this motherhood thing is going to play out: I give my heart to two small people who, in return, simultaneously suck the life out of me, yet make me shout for an encore. I don’t know what their magic is, but I know I don’t want to miss it like I missed the L.L. Bean backpack craze in high school. Just had to have the Jansport…