My friend shared that with me over lunch the other week. She said, “You don’t look like a mom of two kids.” Only, she said it as a compliment, not as an anchor to other statements I’ve heard like, “Mona, what are you doing on this street corner? You don’t look like the mom of two kids.” Or, “Mona, why are you making that face when you eat a choco-taco? You don’t look like the mom of two kids!” She remarked that I had lost weight and hearing that made my heart sing because this road to smaller pants has been a long one lined with veggie stirfry meals and weeping because I’ve had to say goodbye to my very close but caloric friend, Long Island Ice Tea. And this isn’t a way to pull a humblebrag like people who say, “My Hummer is so difficult to steer!” (Please know that I CAN HANDLE HUMMERS. The vehicle. This is not that kind of blog, gutterbrain!)
I’ve also never humblebragged, “Oh it’s so hard to find my size! Anything over small is just enormous!” If I ever utter that sentence, you have permission to shoot me on the spot. That wouldn’t be a bad way to go, either. I would be survived by my family who would inherit the random DVDs from the show The Wire that aren’t even in order, I just bought them because they were on sale and that’s all they had in stock. So I only know slivers of what McNulty does, but maybe that could be my legacy for my kids–pick up where I left off watching a violent show about government corruption and the drug trade in Baltimore. My awesome parenting continues, even from the grave.
Yesterday I was reminded how very much a mother I am of two children as we attended Nathan’s school’s welcoming BBQ. Nathan is starting kindergarten next week. KINDERGARTEN! As we waded through the crowd of strollers and families, I kept thinking, “This is happening.”
This is my chubby baby who morphed into a hulking toddler who this time last year suffered from stunted language skills and who recently drafted his own lifelist contract. A contract that binds him to conditions like going to the park and swimming. And of course he signed it with his five-year-old penmanship, 72 point font, Crayola red.
I don’t mind looking like a mother when I have a child like Nathan. A boy who drives me crazy but who can also read and write and create a proposal for his life filled with park runs and swimming afternoons–a life list that makes him say: “Mommy, let me grab a crayon and make this official.”