Between a tattoo and a mini-van
As I was setting up my laptop tonight, I thought, wouldn't it be great if we had gone out tonight, say, to the little sushi place we love, and I wouldn't be a girl home blogging on a Friday night, AGAIN?! But, no. Here I am, with thoughts in my head, a broken kitchen faucet which my dude-of-all-trades husband is fixing, and not a roll of sushi in sight. Not even a drop of saki. Not that I like saki, anyway. Although I would be happy with a Japanese beer. Except, my nose is so stuffed up I couldn't even taste a beer, and I am way past drinking to get drunk. If I can't taste it, why drink it. But, I digress.
As a mother, I have many conflicting thoughts. Daily. Hourly. Sometimes, like just now, I can't remember what two thoughts are conflicting. Then, like two warring children, they come back to me, each wanting the same sippy cup. As I was pouring a glass of orange juice (can't taste it, but it's bound to do some good), I thought of the girl I saw in the grocery store parking lot, unloading her groceries. Ever the woman, I was comparing her tanned, shapely legs to my spottily off-white mommy legs, her long hair to my current short cut, her hip, working-woman, 20-something, cinnamon-bagel-stick-crumbless attire to my own mommy gear--the jean shorts with a permanent spot of pine pitch on the bottom I've worn all summer, and a not-altogether unstylish strappy shirt (almost said blouse! oh my!). I checked out her sleek, white sports car, her back windows (and her sunglasses) with no fingerprints, and the quiet, QUIET ease with which she was unloading groceries without breaking a sweat, or shoving a stroller out of the way to make room for one more bag of cereal, fruit snacks, frozen waffles and peanut butter Ritz. Then, I watched her open a carton of orange juice and drink it down like she was a marathon runner, just crossing the finish line.
Now, my first thought was, What a pig! At least I'm a woman who doesn't do that in a parking lot! What kind of mother will Barbie make? Then. Oh then. I thought, You know, it would make me kind of a hip mom if I downed a 1/2 gallon of o.j. right here in Price Chopper parking lot. Do you see the conflict? Drink like a sailor (on the wagon) or be a responsible mom? Good example or bad example? For that matter, tattoo or no tattoo? Bikini because I feel like it, or sensible ruffled-skirt suburban mom bathing suit. Superhero lunchbox or neutral, non-violent blue snack bag? Lands End or Walmart? Short, blond, bob or red-highlighted flip? Time-out or spanking? Sesame Street or Power Rangers? Quiet time or adventures all day?
I'm not between a rock and a hard place, I'm between a tattoo and a mini-van. Which, by the way is what I told my son I would have to get if we ever buy a mini-van. I think he said something about Spongebob on my ankle.
Hey, it's just another Friday night in suburbia!