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Friday, January 18, 2013

Confessions of a Tragically Cool Mom

Me: "So, you're actually gonna let me deliver pizza to you ... in public?"
Son: "Yes."
"In front of the whole cafeteria?"
"Do I need to wear a bag over my head?"
"Can I hold the pizza up with one hand and dance like this?" (neck moving, hips swaying, duck face)
"Will you hug me?"
"I might even give you a kiss on the cheek."

Tomorrow is Son's 13th birthday. Today he was willing to risk supreme humiliation to treat his friends to celebratory pizza. Yep, he let me come out of hiding to deliver said pizza. Every kid in that cafeteria now knows Son has a mother. For the record, there was no kiss on the cheek, and the hug was that one-armed, sideways kind usually reserved for stinky people and pervs (of which I am neither). I got the last laugh though, because I'm pretty sure my fly was open while I was there.

It's like this: If we're to be seen together outside the confines of our home, Son would prefer I hold myself to a minimum standard of conduct. Specifically, he'd like me to refrain from dancing, singing or going off on people. Hugs should be quick, and kisses should only take place under the cover of darkness.

This whole "my mother's very existence mortifies me" thing has gone on for about a year now. It coincided with the appearance of his armpit hair, for whatever that's worth. Son doesn't seem to be embarrassed by his dad. Just me. Apparently, Hubs is better behaved than I am. The thing is, I'm actually quite cool. Don't believe me? Here are some facts that attest to my coolness:
  • I don't wear mom jeans. I wear mid-rise bedazzled jeans even though my butt crack shows when I sit down.
  • I know at least four Ke$ha songs.
  • I can rap. Don't put on Ice Ice Baby unless you want me to break it on down.
  • Jamie Foxx once asked for my number. That was, like, 20+ years ago. I'm still waiting for him to call, but I deserve cool points for that nonetheless. 
  • I own a T-shirt with Thor on it that says "It's hammer time." 
  • I can turn my tongue upside down and flip my eyelids inside out. I'm practically a circus act.
  • Able to name nine "Star Wars" planets, I am.
  • I have a mustache key chain, for crying out loud.
So, obviously Son is the one with the problem, not me. Case in point: Daughter and all her little friends think I'm ├╝ber cool. Oh, yeah. I'm a big hit with the female-under-12 demographic. Daughter begs me to show the girls how to do "the running man," and it's not even so they can laugh behind my back later.

One day Son will realize how freakin' cool I am. I mean, if he's embarrassed by me now, just wait 'til I'm sporting elastic-waist, polyester pants, orthopedic shoes and have more hair on my lip than he does. You'll see, Son. You'll see.

Happy birthday to my amazingly handsome, incredibly talented, impossibly skinny son. Love you mucho!
Is it me, or did he look embarrassed even back then?