I’m still getting used to this mothering stuff.
It’s been six months.
If I were to list a few things that have changed from my THEN “I’m-pretty-confident-in-myself-and-if-you-don’t-like-it-you-can-suck-it-all-the-way-to-the-bar” life, to my NOW “I-think-I’m-doing-this-shit-right-most-of-the-time-but-why-are-people-pointing-and-laughing” life…here’s where I’d start:
1. I do more dishes now
2. I had more money then
C. My nails looked better then
D. My skirts remind me I’m not exercising like I was then and to do something about it now
5. The totally untouched back seats of my car then, are littered with headbands and pony-tail holders now
6. A room in my home didn’t smell like feet then
7. I have tumbleweeds of long, brown hair rolling down my hallways now
8. I was much smarter then
9. My Starbuck’s tab went from $5.32 then to $11.48 now
You get it.
(I don’t always…but I’m sure you do.)
Homecoming is this week. Cayla is 15 and all involved. In everything. Which is good. Except now I’m all involved. In everything. Which is…eh?
The parade was yesterday afternoon so I thought I’d be the good mom and take off work early to attend.
Not help or participate.
(I mean, everyone else at the work joint takes off when a kid is missing a shoe or if the kids bangs are cut too short so I figured…why not?)
I live in a small town. Small. One Walgreens. One Subway. No Chipotle.
Well, wait. Let me back up.
Last Saturday, my house was invaded by way too much estrogen for over 4 hours. Loud, squeally, giggly, out-bursting girls. All from the sophomore class.
They started work on the float.
Or actually, they started working on putting the hay on the trailer that would become their “campground” for the parade because their theme was “Soph-smores” because they wanted it to look like they were camping with sleeping bags everywhere and a tent and a fake camp fire in the middle of the hay-filled trailer while they threw out baggies of ‘smore making stuff.
Graham crackers. Chocolate. Marshmallows.
All while screaming “SOPH-SMORES ARE #1!
(Looks like a fake campsite to me.)
(That there, folks, would be your fake camp fire. Uh, huh.)
(No. Cayla isn’t in these pics. That’s how ‘good’ of a mom I am. Ehem.)
Anyway…back to me.
I get home.
Keith and I (way much more Keith than I) hook the trailer with the hay to the truck. We head to the high school to meet all the estrogen (and any testosterone they could convince to pile up on the trailer with them) for this small town parade.
Everything is smooth sailing. So far.
Then here comes some lady barking out some rubbish.
“Each float MUST have a parent or an adult walking along side for legal reasons. They must wear this orange jacket and must remain with the float at all times or the float will be pulled from the parade!!”
She wouldn’t shut up. Kept barking out those words in a monotone, very soldier-ishy, drill-sergeanty tone.
She just would not shut her pie hole. Over and over and over as she marched by.
I look around and there are only two “parents or adults” at our float.
HE HAS TO DRIVE THIS BIG 4X4 TRUCK OF HIS PULLING THE FLOAT! WHO THE HELL IS GONNA WALK THE MILE AND A HALF PARADE ROUTE IN THIS 95* SWEATY WEATHER WITH THIS FAKE CAMPING FLOAT??
No way. No how. No way.
Cayla immediately looks at me. She’s holding that hideous, no-shaped, orange meshy construction vest lookin’ thing.
(It looks completely stupid.)
I’m standing there. In my denim capris. Hot pink cute little sashy frock thing and a black tank top. My flats are well-worn with mall miles.
(Not asphalt-y miles.)
Sunglasses on my head. And my lipgloss is shiny.
I froze. In place. She’s looking at me to WALK THE MILE AND A HALF PARADE ROUTE IN THIS 95* SWEATY WEATHER WITH THIS FAKE CAMPING FLOAT.
(Does she even know me??)
Our eyes locked. She winced. My eyes bugged.
I walked over to her and well, here it is:
Me (whisperishy at her face): “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I can’t walk this whole route in these shoes and denim. My thighs will explode from all the rubbing!!”
Cayla (whisperishy back at my face): “I know. I was going to tell you that you simply CAN NOT do this. My friend is calling her mom and dad to come do it.”
(Now, I’m wanting to get all territorial because I can walk this shit just as good as any other mom can…IF NOT BETTER.)
Me (little more than whisperishy at her face…more like Darth Vader-ishy): “WHAT? I can walk this. You tell her to hang up because I can do this just as good as any other mom!”
Cayla (Darth Vader-ishy back at my face): “No. You don’t understand. You CAN NOT do this. Orange is NOT your best color!”
(I swear to you.)
(And believe me…it ain’t.)
Never was a more prouder moment felt. Angels voices were heard leaving the heavens and the sky lit up in a magical golden hue.
I just KNEW Jesus was coming to this parade.
“Orange is NOT your best color.”
Never have there been more enchanting words leave her sweet lips.
(In more ways than one. My ass wouldn’t be looked down upon for not walking now!)
I hugged her. Hard. She smiled and said, “Now go get in the truck with Daddy.”
Two tennis-shoe clad parents showed up, donned the stupid vests, and marched along side the fake camping float.
And I sat up front. In the truck. With the window down. But the AC blasting.
Because orange, my dear friends…is NOT my best color.