Uncool Mom

Creative Commons License photo credit: DeaPeaJay

I have some troubling news – I’m no longer cool. My awesome card has been reluctantly confiscated by my daughter. Unfortunately, I do not expect to have my membership reinstated until she finds herself, many years from now, fresh from the delivery room desperately trying to soothe a colicky bundle wondering how I survived the secret bliss of motherhood. Until then, I will have to settle for occasional hugs and quips like, “Stop, Mom, you’re embarrassing me!” She seems to think it is inappropriate for a thirty year old to sing Hannah Montana while whipping up burrito bowls for dinner – who knew?

Once upon a whole lot of years ago, she used to think that I was famously cool belting out Elmo’s theme song and shaking it in the living room with The Wiggles. She once found it fascinating that she and her brother spent time kicking up their heels inside my belly. Now she curls her lips at my stretch marks and proudly professes that certainly she will, “never get a baby!” The ‘rock on’ so long I flash to her brother each morning during school drop-off sends her screaming in a frenzy to escape her mother’s quirks as if my level of lameness is as contagious as bird flu.

So just how did I find myself stuck in the capital of, “Oh no here comes my Mom?” Sometime right around her seventh birthday I awoke one morning and found myself jamming to Kids Bop – minus my rock star aura. The little girl who let us cut her hair into a shoulder length bob because Mommy thought that it would be cute now stands, arms folded, insisting her avoidance of the shears until her locks tickle her toes. The cute pastel outfits courtesy Gymboree have been found balled-up under her bed in favor of sequins, fur, and all things Limited Too. And, the sweet little bedroom with all of the dragonflies literally pales in comparison to black, white, Kool-Aid purple, and smokin’ hot pink which now covers her walls.

Sarah Kelly

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