So, a couple of things happened to me over the past few days, and I've had time to ruminate, meditate, and brew over them. It doesn't help that I have insomnia again. Well. Anyway, one of my children had a formal dance on the weekend, and I went to take some pictures. The music was playing, and we all know that I love to dance. It took everything in my power to be very still and unobtrusive.
You may stop laughing now. We all know that I truly cannot be unobtrusive. Even if I try.
But I didn't wish to embarrass my child, to leave my child with a memory of her mother dancing like a fool at her formal event. On the way out, I was talking with another grown-up, and a comment was made that this person could see that I love the spotlight. (Or that I loved to be on stage - the actual comment was lost to me. Just the sentiment.)
The context of the conversation was immaterial – what I'm wanting to discuss at this moment in time is that point – that I love the spotlight. I don't feel like I do, but at that moment in the conversation, I felt flayed open, bare for all to see.
That conversation goes along with the grocery trip that I made today. Yes, I make a grocery trip almost every day. But today, I was playing music very loudly in my car. I can't help it – that's what I do when I'm alone. And as I was driving out of the parking lot, I happen to catch the eye of a shopper leaving the store. She's someone I know very well, someone who cannot be bothered to give me the time of day, makes snide comments under her breath, and the look that she gave me today could have curdled milk. For about half a second I froze: Oh, man, did she hear my music? Was I embarrassing myself? Should I be embarrassed?
No, because I'm not going to be embarrassed of me. For a long time, I wondered if my children wanted a different mother. You know the mother I'm speaking of – the one who wears bangs and ponytail, deck shoes and chinos, is there for every volunteer event of the school, with her Eddie Bauer vests and her prep school education. A thinner, more fit, less "boobs and butt, 1940's" body type. She drives a station wagon, or maybe a mini van, has presets for easy listening and never ever speeds. She's kind, never says a word against another person, smiles all the time and loves everyone. And everyone loves her.
There is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING WRONG with this kind of mother. In fact, she's the kind of mother that I have long admired - but I am not that kind of mother.
I am the kind of mother who has blue hair, has Thrift Shop and Wobble and The Time Warp loaded on her playlist, the kind of mother who cannot stand still if there is music on and club dances to her heart's content, the kind of mother who gets lost reading and forgets that she's supposed tp pick someone up 10 minutes ago. The kind of mother who doesn't want to drive a minivan but really longs to buy a motorcycle - and LOVES her husband's super huge black pick up truck more than is probably legal. Or advisable.
The mom who is not quiet, but loud. She laughs too loudly, loves to dance in public and lives for sarcasm. She's often borderline inappropriate, loves her family fiercely but loves her free time even more than that. She's snarky and a friend thorugh thick and thin.
And I'm not apologizing for her anymore.