Zombies, Singing, and Make-overs

Yes, the Girl’s birthday party is underway and, so far, the girls have played various levels of zombie infestation and are now in the upstair’s bathroom, singing while doing a make-over.  It scares me just a little.  My daughter just credited me with teaching her how to put on make-up.  Lord….my form of make-up is Chap-Stik and deodorant.  Talk about high class.

Motherhood is such a complex jigsaw puzzle.  Just as I think I know how these pieces fit together, they shift or crumble or get lost because the colors match the stains in the carpet or the dirty linoleum pattern and no matter how much I crawl around I can’t find the pieces that I know dropped from my fingers that I feel like have no grip.  Recently, I have been declared to be a bit of an embarrassment by my son.  That’s okay.  I firmly believe that this was God’s Eleventh Commandment:  “And thou shalt humiliate thy children at least once a day.”

I might not be a great Christian, but I can follow that Commandment.

When my son tells me that this Commandment isn’t written in the Bible, I explain that this is a promise written in blood and was sealed the minute he was laid on my flabby, jiggly belly immediately after I gave birth to him.  At this point in the conversation, he is usually gagging so I feel that I have, once more, fulfilled my obligation to the Eleventh Commandment.

I don’t mean to be an embarrassment all the time.  Sometimes, it’s because I happen to like a song that is on “their” radio station and I’ll sing along to it.

“MOM!  Jesus!  Stop singing.”  Now, if I wanted to be witty, I would say that Jesus wasn’t singing but that I was unless they want to count the fact that Jesus is in my heart and then I guess he might be singing along with me.

Not the most appropriate comeback.  But I might use it in the future.

Even when I drop the Boy off at his school in the mornings, I make a point of not shouting out the open door that I love him and that I hope he has a great day.  I usually say something like this quietly.  Or I silently pass him his huge coffee mug and smile at him and hope that he sees how much I love him in the curled crescent of my mouth.  He’s usually looking the other way, checking out to make sure his friends aren’t watching him.

That’s okay.  I’m not hurt.

Because then there’s the Wal Mart episodes in which I suddenly get a little goofy and act silly and intentionally embarrassing because the Boy or the Girl will turn a million shades of red and will quietly shout at me to stop being obnoxious.

I have to admit, that’s just fun to do.

And I don’t even know why. I know I should act my age.  I’m 43.  And from what I can tell, 43 year old women are supposed to be dignified and carry purses and text on their smart phones while applying lots of lipstick and read smart magazines.

I have a purse…that I use when I wear a dress…about twice a year.

And…remember…my form of lipstick is Chap-Stik.  Wait…I take that back.  I also use a tinted version of Burt’s Bees.

I have a flip phone.  And an iPod.

I say that I’m a Toys R Us Kid and that I don’t want to grow up because I love to play.

But that really is the truth.  I love to play.  I have more Legos than my kids.  I have the entire Diagon Alley Lego set.  And I don’t want to give it up even though it’s in a million pieces because it kept on breaking while being played with.

I have toys in my classroom that are used to illustrate points.  And, when in doubt, I just let the kids play with the toys because sometimes it’s easier to have a little bit of fun.

At times, I worry that I really am a source of embarrassment to my kids.  But, then, at the same time, I also know that I can be embarrassing simply because I breathe, call them by their nicknames, call them by their names, or jiggle a little when I walk.

I know I’ve written about this before.  But I keep on worrying that my lack of normalcy in this world will lead to my children being rejected.  And then I hear four little girls upstairs singing to the radio while working on their cosmetics.

They just got loud. And they’re upstairs with make-up and my white carpet.

I think I need to be afraid….

But I also enjoy listening to my daughter stretch her arms and spend a little time with her peers.

Besides, I might embarrass her.

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