Nothing to See Here…

I’m a grown up.  I have a grown up life.  Well, for a few hours a month, at least, I have a grown up life. 

The rest of the time, I just parade around as “Mommy!”  Mommies don’t get to have any lives in the eyes of their children.  Mommies are always available.  They cook and clean and drive kids to soccer.  From the child’s perspective, mommies are not foul-mouthed sluts.  They don’t drink like fish.  They aren’t addicted to slot machines or diet pills or Cheddar Bay biscuits.  And they certainly don’t have big walk-in closets full of slutty shoes.  In other words, moms are boring.

But not really.

All moms have lives outside of their motherhood.  Some of them involve slot machines or diet pills or vast numbers or martinis.  Sometimes, these lives are peppered with f-bombs or secret stashes of filthy romantic novels written by Anonymous.  Often times, children are blissfully unaware of these other hidden lives.

We like to keep them innocent for as long as possible. 

Eventually they grow up and gain the power of observation and deduction.  They start putting the pieces together.

Have I mentioned how old I am?  I have a 23 year old daughter.  Evidently, somewhere along the line, Katie grew out of that innocent bliss phase.  She has observed.  She has deduced.  And most of all, she has communicated.

Exhibit A - an email from Katie today:

Katie:  Mom, I know we’ve never addressed the reason why you have loads of slutty shoes in your closet, and frankly I’d prefer to keep it that way, but do you think I could borrow some for Halloween?

Me (via reply):  OK, well I’ll just say this much… I am not personally into shopping for or buying the shoes.  In case that clears anything up.  What color and what size?

Katie:  I know they’re not for you specifically, and I don’t want to delve any deeper than that.  I’ve just started to feel old enough to admit I know you own the shoes.  We’ll save the rummaging through for when I’m in my mid-40s.  I want something red and not too wobbly.  Thank god for email, this probably would be way too uncomfortable in person.

Me:  What?  The shoes ARE for me.  Oh, please tell me you’re not picturing someone ELSE wearing them.  Someone ELSE buys them for me, but he doesn’t wear them!!!  Oh, and you’ll inherit them all when I die.  Seriously, are you not enjoying this conversation as much as I am?

She hasn’t replied in hours.  Do you think I’ve scarred her for life?

~~~~~~

Later, via instant-messaging, I relayed the whole story to my husband.

Him: What is she being for Halloween again?

Me: Rainbow Brite

Him: And why, pray tell, does Rainbow Brite need slutty shoes?

Good question.  I think I might turn this whole thing in the other direction, make her look like she’s the dirty slut tarnishing the innocent image of a girl’s cartoon icon.  Take some of this focus off of me and my closet full of slut shoes.  That is, if she ever speaks to me again.

The moral of the story is this:  if you see a full grown Rainbow Brite in hooker heels out trick-or-treating on Halloween, give her Snickers bars.  Her mother loves Snickers bars (and let’s face it - no matter how old a kid is, a mother still has the right to rummage through her Halloween candy and take the good stuff when she’s not looking!)