Humor,  Life,  Motherhood

Dance Like Your Bra is Showing

I submitted this piece to the Erma Bombeck writing competition.
I didn’t win but it’s all good.
Because inside I am a winner.
No, not really.
It totally sucks I didn’t win. 
By the way, it is pretty friggin hard to be funny in 450 words or less. 
Or maybe that’s just me. 
I like to pride myself on being a modest individual.
I don’t rock the boat as it pertains to things like outfits,
hairstyles or even my dietary needs.
I like comfortable shoes, the classic bob and Oreo’s.
I am middle of the road.
Some would even say boring.
My teenager, however, has PLENTY of words to describe me, if pressed.

Since having a teenager, I have learned the following:
I know absolutely NOTHING when it comes to absolutely EVERYTHING.
I have hair coming in on my upper lip.
I need to wear a bra to the grocery store.I am not allowed to dance.
Like ever.
In front of her.
Or other people for that matter.

Now, I am not a mom who “purposely” chooses to embarrass
my children.
I don’t wear yoga pants to soccer pick up.
I always wipe the Cheetos residue off my lips before her friends
come through the door.
I don’t use trendy words like “tots” or “adorbs”.
And I am pretty sure I am a lot less embarrassing than most
parents my age.
I mean, I have Facebook.
I know what is out there.

Yet, I am embarrassing.
Mortifying when I try to give her a hug in public.
And a definite deal breaker if the said hug is given with loud kissy
sounds.

But this is the thing I want her to know.
I don’t remember any of the myriads of embarrassing things my
parents did when I was a teen.
And there were MANY, I am quite sure of it.

I only really remember the embarrassing things I did to myself
as a teenager.

The time I got my period during 8th grade Science
class while wearing white jeans.
And I had no idea.
When me and my big ass 1987 Gunny Sack by Jessica McClintock dress
got stuck in the bathroom stall during prom my Junior year at the
Masonic Temple.

The time I got walked in on while singing “Walk Away” by Kelly
Clarkson AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS into my flat iron.
Okay, that might have been last month.

The point is, she won’t remember my upper lip hair, the bra-less
Wal-Mart runs or my stellar dance moves.

What she will remember is a loving mom who recalled what it was
like to be a teenager.
And has plenty of her own embarrassing stories to tell.

Like the time my bra was hanging out of my dress in front of
hundreds of people while posing for a picture with Ree Drummond.

 

Me and Ree Drummond. And my bra.

See?
I DID wear a bra back then.

I love to write about my family, John Hughes, tacos and Bruce Hornsby. Not necessarily in that order.

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